Vive Las Vegas!
by David N. Brown
Summary: The finale of "The Vegas Saga"!  250,000 zombies!  9 besieged casinos!  3 sisters!  2 biker warlords!  1 M60 tank   and tow-tank , 1 zombie with a gun and a can opener, and 1 new survivor rarin' to be born!  What else do I need to say?
1. Prologue: Quest For Pineapple

**Now the final installment of the "Vegas Sage", starting a little sooner than I planned. Hey, how could I pass up a chance to write story 200 (or 201)? And this is just a funny vignette I thought up for an original character; the chapter title is a parody of a fairly famous "cave man" film. Picture accompanied by Also Sprach Zarathustra/ the 2001 theme...**

**The Quest For Pineapple**

Four months into the Pandemic, large portions of the stored food supplies of the former USA were beginning to spoil, a process which accelerated as refrigeration units failed. Canned foods were quickly becoming the food of choice, not just for uninfected humans but for "zombies" as well. Unfortunately for the latter, it was quite difficult to extract food from a can when their average aptitude with tools made _Homo habilis_ look good.

The loading dock of a mid-sized grocery store a few miles east of the Vegas Strip was a typical scene. A panel van had crashed halfway down the ramp, throwing the back doors open, spilling dozens of cans of fruits and vegetables and revealing hundreds more. Zombies came frequently, and might stay long after creatures of no greater intelligence would have given up. At present, thirty-five zombies were swarming over the truck, and even more wandered about the store and the parking lot. The cans on the ground were getting rusty and dented, and many had lost their labels. Yet, even the most battered specimens were grabbed up eagerly. Whether the zombies held residual memory of the cans' function, or with their keen senses could somehow detect the food within, was unclear. It might be said in defense of the latter theory that the zombies showed the least interest in cans of green beans. Fruit, on the other hand, seemed to be highly desired, especially peaches and pineapple.

Scene after scene seemed to harken back to the dawn of the naked ape. Cans were battered with all manner of blunt instruments, and frequently flung or dropped. Unfortunately, when such methods met with any success, it tended to become a pyrrhic victory as the contents splattered everywhere, to spill into nooks and crannies, disappear down drains, seep into the dirt or simply be devoured by the other zombies. Prying cans open was preferable, but far more difficult. Some zombies went at it with ingenuity, like a zombie banging a can with another can. Some were systematic, like a zombie trying out various parts of a Swiss army knife. Some used teamwork, like one zombie that held a can in place while another used both hands to gouge and pry with a screw driver. A few even showed glimmers of full-blown civilization, like the zombie that offered two unopened cans to another holding a half-open can of spinach. But for every success, many more ended with cuts, bruises and cans rolling away, and for every pair of zombies that worked together, scores wrestled, scuffled or openly battled, frequently with the can as the main weapon. An especially fierce battle was being fought for and with a large can of name-brand pineapple.

The can was already dented and bloody as the largest of five combatants wrested it from a rival. But the victor had no better idea than to bang the can against the truck gate, and he could scarcely do that with three others trying to take it away. The label tore and the can slipped away. As it rolled down the ramp, a sixth stopped it with his foot and scooped it up. The newcomer's eyes gleamed red in the shade of a British flat cap. The rest snarled and advanced, but hesitated when the infamous "Andy Capp" brandished an especially large implement. Then the Capp slammed the can down on the raised curb and swung his big, slightly rusty manual can opener into place. The zombies retreated from the sound of grinding gears and tearing metal.

Capp had to set down the can opener to pick up the can. Lifting with both hands, he swigged from it like a flagon, spilling juice and fruit.

When he lowered the can, he grinned around a massive mouthful of pineapple chunks. The other zombies stared. Then a small, shy female stepped forward and set a can at Andy Capp's feet.


	2. The Great Tank Robbery

**This wasn't my first idea for the next chapter, but it seemed unavoidable. We'll be back to the regular crew (at least 3 of 4) next. Long-time followers may notice that I "unkill" another person here. I would like to mention, lest anyone take this as pure farce, that I know a veteran who was actually involved in an incident like this. I consider this individual's full story to be strictly in confidence. It will suffice to say, nobody won.**

Week 46

The pair had been known as Cop-Killer and Auto among their peers, but dubbed Helmet and Cash by the little band of survivors that had bested them on the way to Vegas, and to their chagrin the new titles were catching on. They had been trusted lieutenants of middle manager-turned-biker warlord Branson Missouri, along with Enid Oklahoma and a hulk known as Nails, even after their ignominious defeat seven months earlier. But then Helmet and Cash had had the poor judgment to help Nails in his attempt at revenge on a 13-year-old girl who had given him his nickname by defeating him with a nail gun. Nails had been banished, Helmet had been shot in the shoulder as an object lesson, and then he and Cash had been severely demoted, to little more than errand boys for the military personnel who maintained Branson's force of armored vehicles. Enid had kept them under relatively good graces, instructing them to prepare for the "contingency" of taking control of the armor. Then, twelve hours ago, he had told them to put the first phase of their plan into effect, before going out into the desert with Branson. They were to await his signal before actually seizing the vehicles, but that was to have happened by nightfall, whereas by now it was fast approaching 10:00 at night.

"With what we've got, we can take three bricks or a brick and a spig," said their closest confidant, a mechanic who would answer to Milo. "I found guys who can get us more, including the Tank and a centipede, but they'll only do it if Branson is out of the picture first." By the coalition's vernacular, a "brick" was an M113 APC, a "spig" was a 155 mm self-propelled gun, the "centipedes" were sixteen-axle giant tractor-trailers used to transport armored vehicles, "Arv" was Camp Swampy's single M88 Armor Recovery Vehicle, and _the_ Tank was an M60, by far the most formidable vehicle in Branson's possession.

Helmet shook his head. "If it was going to be that easy, Enid would have given us the signal already."

"But Branson hasn't called back either," Cash said. "_Something_ happened to him, and if we take the tank now, it won't _matter_ what."

"And what would we _do_ with it?" Milo said. "I'm _barely_ qualified to drive it, but it takes two more people to run the main gun, another if we're going to man the .50 cal, and two more to pull it with the centipede, never mind maintenance..."

"But all we really need to do," Helmet said, rubbing his chin, "is get it out of here..."

"Hey, Milo," said a sergeant, shining a flashlight into the cab of an M746 8X8 truck, "what are you doing?"

"We're taking the centipede back for maintenance," said Milo as he started the engine.

The sergeant reached pointedly for his pistol. "With the trailer. And the Tank."

"Well..." Helmet leaned around Milo and shot the sergeant in the face.

"Holy *," said Milo. Helmet shrugged.

A mixed group of bikers and soldiers arriving at a barbed-wire fence heard a very loud beeping. Then the centipede backed right over the fence, and several vehicles. The tractor and trailer had a total length of about sixty feet, and with the fully-loaded and majorly upgraded tank on board had a combined mass of100 tons. Amazingly, a dozen of the interception party held their ground, clustering in front and behind with weapons including a .50 Barrett anti-materiel rifle and a 7.62 mm machine gun, and a hundred feet to the side of the centipede an APC armed with a missile launcher pulled up. "Get out of the truck, and we can sort this out," a soldier called out from a humvee turret.

"Or what?" shouted Helmet.

"Or, we can blow up the tank," the soldier said.

"I don't think Branson would be very happy with that," Helmet said. "And I think you would have a lot of collateral damage."

"Or," the soldier said, rather pleasantly, "I can just shoot the * out of the cab of that tractor."

"Yeah?" said Helmet. Suddenly, a second APC pulled up behind the encirclement, aiming the cannon of a transplanted Bradley turret at the first and disgorging bikers and a few soldiers. "Loyalist" weapons were promptly turned on the new arrival, and several .50 rounds inflicted non-trivial damage to the turret.

"Fine, so that evens the odds," the soldier said, "but we still have a missile on the Tank, and if we have to shoot, then nobody wins."

"Yeah, I suppose that does sum it up," said Helmet. "Except, there's one thing I just remembered..."

Suddenly, the turret whirred to life. Pointed in a backward "traveling" position, it had to wrench free of a brace that held the main gun in place, but after that, the turret swiveled smoothly, and every head swiveled to follow the 105 mm muzzle. Loyalists broke and ran. The APC crew bailed right out of their vehicle.

"Okay," Helmet said as Milo put the tractor in gear, "we'll be going now." They ducked the soldier's last-ditch spray of machine gun fire, and then the valiant warrior made a very quick strategic withdrawal before the centipede smashed his humvee to pieces.


	3. House divided

Week 48

By the best available estimates, the infected population of Vegas had swelled in one week from about 5,000 to over 50,000. In another week, there would be at least 100,000 more, as the the bulk of the horde arrived. So far, only a few hundred of Las Vegas's inhabitants had been killed or infected, but thousands were already threatened by malnutrition and disease resulting from overcrowding.

Krista gazed out from the roof of the Planet Hollywood casino at the throng below. The casino's few defenders didn't bother firing as a pack charged a barricaded door. Ammunition was in too short a supply to spend in anything but the most desperate circumstances. A pair pushed through the midst of the others and began battering the door with a brick and a tire iron. On impulse, she fired, and kept firing until her Mossberg was empty. Three zombies staggered away from a gory mess, including the one with a tire iron. All around her, more gunfire erupted, despite immediate and emphatic orders to hold fire. Dozens of zombies from the larger swarm fell, but incredibly, when the wild shooting died down, the zombie with the crowbar was still going. She loaded a slug and raised the gun. Then arms wrapped around her, firmly grasping the gun.

"Honey. Easy," Austin said. "You don't need to be up here." She let him steer her back inside, though she felt a strong impulse to shove her husband away. A black man named Sydney met them inside the door, obviously ready to read somebody the riot act, but backed off under Austin's gaze.

"I'm sorry," she said hoarsely.

"It's okay," he said in a comforting voice that, at the moment, made her want to scream. "Everybody's under stress. Nobody's going to judge." His hands brushed her distended belly.

"So this thing gets me a free pass?" she said sardonically.

"Nobody else has to deal with it," Austin said. Krista sighed. She loved this man, more than she had ever thought she could love anyone... but just now, she felt like punching him _not_ in the face.

"How's Abbs?" she said.

"She's asleep," Austin said as he raised the gate to Sur La Table. "I'll be back in a few minutes."

As he left, something moved in the darkness. Krista stifled a cry at a light touch on the back of her knee. She whirled, ready to act in an instant, and then exhaled. "Bell," she said. Stooping to look the little girl in the eye, she said, "Bell... You aren't supposed to be here."

Bell sucked on her finger. "I miss you, Kista," she said. Then: "Do you hate me?"

She hugged the girl with tears in her eyes. "Honey! Of course not!" she said, running her hand through the child's hair. "I love you!"

Bell pouted. "Then... Why don' I see you anymo'?"

"It- it's complicated."

"Do you hate Mommy?"

Krista straightened, wincing at a spasm in her back. "No," she said, and was surprised to find she meant it. Then she choked another cry at the sight of Chacha, standing outside the barricade.

"Bell," the other woman said, "there you are. Honey, you need to be in bed."

"'Kay," Bell said somberly. "Night, Kista." Krista half-raised the gate, and the girl shuffled out.

"I'll help," Chacha said. She pulled the barricade back down, stood, and then whispered, "Thank you." Krista turned away. "I did it for her, you know." Krista paused in midstep. "Nobody else knew. Not even him. And I couldn't let anyone know. He was gone. Abbs was gone. Mama was gone. She was the one good thing I had left, and if anyone had known, they would have taken her too. So I waited, until they couldn't keep me in the same place any more, and then I went."

"Good-bye, Chacha," Krista said, and kept walking.

Austin found Abilene asleep on the couch, and Krista sitting with her back to an arm rest. He crouched, put an arm around her, and wiped a tear from a tightly shut eye. Then an elbow sent him sprawling. "Don't touch me!" she hissed, then curled up and started sobbing with her head between her knees.


	4. Muster

**Finally back to this, after getting "Death Valley Drag" and "The Nevilles" ready for ebook publication. This is just a segue, but a scene I considered important. And I'll shamelessly plug Zombie Vegas 1-4, available from Amazon, Smashwords, Barnes & Noble, Diesel and itunes, and ZV 5: Vegas Sunset coming this weekend!**

Two weeks after the dramatic schism of Branson and Enid, Camp Swampy was still in turmoil. Tensions only escalated as a steady stream of bikers converged on the military testing range, seeking the signs that would decide whether to follow the old leader, or the upstart, or simply grab what they could and go their own way.

The latest round of arrivals was the largest, and included a goodly number who had never even declared allegiance to Branson. Other bikers either sought the favor of the unaligned or grew more vigilant against them. The ex-soldiers who guarded Branson's armored vehicles grew especially paranoid, brandishing weapons at anyone who ventured close. And, in the very midst of a new wave of arrivals, Branson drove in in his own, newly repaired Dodge D200, pulling a towering trailer behind it. Relative silence descended as he stepped out and mounted the hood of the truck.

"Listen up!" he shouted. "I don't need to tell you what's happened. But I'm here to tell you this: I'm still here. I still have the money, the stockpiles and above all the know-how to save the hides of anyone willing to follow me.

"And I'll tell you something else. I've never done business with anyone that I didn't offer a simple choice: Follow me, on whatever terms I agree to, or go your own way. If Enid Oklahoma had just said he wanted out, I would have let him go. I would even have cut him a deal to let him take a fair share of stuff with him. And it's no different for any of you. If you want to stay, I will reward you. If you want to make a new deal, I'll listen. If you want to go, I won't stop you. But whatever you do, you better think carefully. Because I'm not going away any time soon, and if you're out there on your own, you never know when I might come your way."

Then the gathered bikers grew even more intent as a second vehicle pulled up. It was a Yukon Denali SUV, heavily modified and fortified. From it stepped a man with a shaved head and a cowboy hat, whom they all knew at a glance as the Panhandler.

"All right!" Tal pronounced, taking a bite out of a Twinkie. "Who wants to go to Vegas?"

The cheers of thousands could be heard for miles.

**David N. Brown**

**Mesa, Arizona**


	5. Unwelcome relief

**Yet another chapter that's more of a segue... Sorry for the delay, but I've had a big grad school assignment, plus I'm still sorting out what I want to do with this. This particular scene is built up from a scene I added when I turned the "Fear and Loafing"/ "Death Valley" arc into an ebook. Also note that I'm using alternate names for movie characters; I think it's clear enough who's who.**

Week 48, day 3

It was ten days since the horde reached Las Vegas, when the first sign of relief came from the south. First came the self-propelled gun, which throngs of besieged survivors celebrated as a "tank". It fired one smoke canister on the road into town, sending zombies into staggering wheezing fits. Then it rolled aside as more vehicles approached. Smiles among the besieged turned to frowns as they saw the flag flying from the radio mast of an armor-recovery vehicle: A white flag bearing a red octagon, like a stop sign stretched vertically, with a white "S" inside. It was the symbol of Branson Missouri's Syndicate. But on the roof of Planet Hollywood, Abilene pointed and shouted almost hysterically: "I knew it! I knew he would come! It's Tal! _It's Tal!_"

Even as she pointed, the engineering vehicle respectfully made room for another vehicle, tracked like a tank but smaller than a compact car, unimposing save for its six 106 mm recoilless anti-tank guns. Standing tall in a turret that was dwarfed by the armament it bore was a man with a shaved head and a snakeskin vest- Tal, returning to Vegas. The weird little superweapon known as the Thing fired its guns three at a time, and then let fly with a few volleys of its four .50 machine guns. The horde in the Boulevard was reduced to a few scattered packs, and a squadron of bikers and a pair of humvees roared in to dispatch them. Then the engineering vehicle moved in, to pile up the dead in heaps that were set on fire with a flamethrower mounted in a motorcycle's sidecar. Meanwhile, big military supply trucks started driving up the boulevard. Obviously, most were laden with supplies, but some were pulling large trailer homes, including a converted tanker that might easily hold a dozen men.

Cheers erupted as the Thing led the way into the city, but the true veterans steadied their weapons as the Thing and three of the trucks pulled up in front of Planet Hollywood. The casino-hotel had been the refuge of fifteen timid survivors. Now, it held more than a hundred, mostly hunters and fighters sent forward as the first line of defense for Vegas. The second line, a few blocks away, was a rampart of debris that had been the rubble of Caesar's Palace. Broken only by an opening large enough to admit a semi truck, and easily blocked by one, the wall had so far kept the horde from storming the boulevard en masse, though thousands were finding their way around it. At the wall, the defenders were even more pointedly vigilant, bring to bear a .50 Barrett rifle and two grenade launchers. The Thing turned to face Planet Hollywood, and Tal looked up. Abilene's eyes met his, and the girl's heart sank.

"I'm here to talk on behalf of the Syndicate and its leader, Branson Missouri," Tal said. "They may not look nice, they may not be nice, but they're a business enterprise that has been trading with Vegas through third parties for months. Now, they're ready to trade more directly."

He waved to the trucks. "The Syndicate knows that Vegas has too many people, and nowhere near enough food. They have business arrangements with other colonies where crops are being grown, but there are still not enough people to be productive. The Syndicate wants to solve this with a trade: For every able-bodied man- or woman- willing to leave Vegas for one of the farming colonies, the Syndicate will provide a ration for another person who remains." Onlookers muttered, and several shouted insults. "The Syndicate is not- _not_- proposing to barter labor for food. Anyone who comes _will_ be paid a _generous_ wage, in the casinos' own poker chips. This can be supplied as credit with which the casinos can buy additional food as well as ammunition, medicine and other supplies."

He cleared his throat and looked directly at Abbie again. "The Syndicate also offers, for each person who comes to work on a farming colony, to transport _two_ children to safety. The offer will also apply for women who are pregnant or have an infant. All evacuated women and children will be cared for at Branson's personal expense. Branson expects his offer to be announced to the general population." As if anyone could keep it a secret...

One trailer was unhitched from a truck. "Branson gives this food as proof of good faith. We will return in 48 hours to pick up anyone who accepts this offer." He looked at Abbie one last time before disappearing down the hatch. Tears ran down Abbie's cheeks, but her expression was cold fury.

A slender, balding man named John hugged his daughter Maggie tightly. "No," he said. "Whatever happens, we're staying together."

"Right," Chacha said sardonically, "cuz we all know you can't let that girl out of your sight." Krista glared at her, appalled and also puzzled at her rudeness. Then her eyes met her husband's.

"What's to talk about?" she said.

"Nothing," Austin answered. "You're going."


	6. Song and Demolition

**Sorry for another long wait... I have been busy with grad school and exotroopers projects, but I hope to build up momentum on this fic from here on in. This is still pretty much a segue, but one I hope will set a mood. It's a scene I have intended for a while, and includes a brainstorm I had just today about offensive applications for an Armor Recovery Vehicle...**

Week 48, Day 4

The zombie was a relic of an era. Known as the King, he wore a torn and filthy sequined white suit with a flaring collar and an oversized hair piece that had peeled halfway off. He had spent the duration of the Pandemic on a semi-official list of "Most Wanted" zombies. But that was now a hollow title. A man named Austin had shown the hunters of Vegas how to do their jobs efficiently, and the Most Wanted were quickly picked off without successors. The days when a zombie could survive yet have notoriety were deemed long gone... and the zombied Elvis impersonator was not about to help matters.

As a rule, zombies were retiring in daylight. It took a lot to draw them out in the open anytime between morning and very late afternoon. But the noises that rang through the streets of Paradise exceptional indeed: Shots, explosions, crashes, shouts, revving egines and for some reason, strains of "The Crocodile Rock". The King skulked around a corner, and edged into the street.

Ahead stood an amazingly architectured building whose creators had managed to make white look gaudy, fronted by a free-standing inverted structure topped by a three-dimensional neon sculpture of a piano and two giant keyboards. The neon sign said, LIBERACE MUSEUM. The King stepped slowly forward, seemingly less in caution than in stunned incredulity, closer, closer...

And then a gold lamè grand piano fell on him.

The Liberace Museum was an attraction that could only have taken root in Vegas (strictly speaking, like many landmarks of the area, it was in the unincorporated area called Paradise), and eventually had been too much even for Vegas. It had been closed for more than a year when the Pandemic had broken out. Now it was reopened, courtesy of the Syndicate, but it was past going back in business. The first biker inside had taken one look around and said, "Holy *, this guy was more flamin' queer than the `Queer Eye' guys!" Then had come the carnage.

The Caddy stuck a silver-sequined piano's last chords as Tal won a drag race through the museum's main exhibition hall, beating a lamentably gold-painted Stingray from the museum's car collection by a nose. Other bikers whooped as they aimlessly circled the halls, stopping when they found another tasteless piano to try another form of destruction upon. By strong consensus, the winner so far was an especially large specimen that had been demolished by a grenade. But the bikers were duly impressed when several of their peers turned five baby grands on their ends and knocked them over like decidedly fragile dominoes.

Branson had chosen a large, fine black specimen for himself, and several musically-inclined henchmen were taking turns playing for him. At the moment, he was watching with cautious interest as his men experimented with using the crane of his prized Armor Recovery Vehicle to smash pianos. After dropping a dozen pianos (including the one that claimed the late King), the men had thought of trying to _throw_ pianos, and then a renegade soldier who really knew what he was doing stepped forward with a proposal to turn the ARV into a catapult.

With little more than the addition of a few extra lengths of cable, the work was done. The result amounted to a cross between a ballista and a trebuchet. A counterweight (in this case a full-sized grand piano) was to be hoisted and dropped with the crane. Meanwhile, cables would transfer the resulting energy to a baby grand perched on the moorings of the crane. The result, in theory, would be to fling the smaller piano into the air.

With one push of a button, theory became practice. The grand smashed to pieces with a death cry of thrumming and twanging strings. The baby grand shot up the lengths of cables that held up the crane itself, and cheers erupted as it did indeed take to the air. Unfortunately, its flight ended after thirty feet, in a terminal collision with a set of power lines. The cheers gave way to a chorus of disappointed but not displeased cries. Branson himself clapped respectfully as he walked up to the ARV. "That will be _quite_ enough," he said, in the tone of a very firm order. "Congratulations to all for ingenuity. I am going to need the ARV for myself for the moment, but I approve- indeed, I request- further theoretical development. I think it just might shape into something useful."

Branson turned and smiled as Tal pulled up in the Caddy. "The museum was all clear to start with, and we got the zombies that were outside," said his new lieutenant. "A few more may wander in, but if there were any swarm-class infestations around, the noise would have drawn them out by now."

Branson nodded. "Good. Get the word out that I want a base camp set up by nightfall. Lights are fine, but the... celebrations will have to wind down at sundown."

"Yes, _sir_." Tal wheeled around.

"Ah, Panhandler?" Tal stopped and looked back, and his face did not quite hide his unease. "I'm glad to have you on board."

Tal nodded and kept driving.

As sunset approached, a bonfire was assembled from smashed pianos, with a couple intact specimens on top. Three men poured on generous but carefully measured quantities of gasoline. The rest backed away. As the men with the gas cans retreated themselves, a single biker stepped forward and tossed a flare. Branson climbed onto the hood of his 63 Dodge and surveyed his camp. "Well, men," he announced with a broad smile, _"welcome to Paradise!"_

David N. Brown resides in Mesa, Arizona.


	7. Story time with Jack Ketch

**Okay, so this is another segue, but this one goes somewhere. It also reintroduces a major loose end involving Jack Ketch and family...**

Somewhere in the "no-man's land" between Sahara and Freemont Avenue, a baby's cry came feebly through the air. An understrength pack of zombies began wandering in the direction of the sound.

A child's hands, thoroughly gloved, lifted an infant from a crib. "Hush, brother. Hush, hush." An extra blanket was bundled around the infant, and then it was cuddled close enough for comfort, by a girl who was swathed like a conservative Arab. The cries softened, and the girl proffered a bottle. "I know, I know... It's so lonesome without Daddy... Oh, I gotta go, just a second..."

The first zombie to reach the well-boarded door to the house turned back. As one of the Type 3s who had survived the duration of the Pandemic, it had retained enough of the faculties of reason to notice that, where there had been three of its kind following, there were now two, and one was quite short... As the zombie surveyed the streets with vague unease, there was a dull thump, and it looked to see the taller of the remaining zombies fall. Its eyes locked on the short one, who drew closer and closer, with both hands behind her back...

The dull sound of a croquet mallet and the thump of a collapsing body could be heard inside the house. A minute or so later, the baby looked up from his bottle at his returning sister. "There, everything's okay... Say, why don't I tell you a story? It's my favorite... Once upon a time, a brother and sister lived in the woods. Their names were Hansel and Gretel..."

Krista listened in bemusement as ex-leper Jack Ketch finished telling the children of the Planet Hollywood colony a quaintly disturbing version of Hansel and Gretel. As he finished, a boy called Calvin frowned. "But what happened to the witch?" he said.

"She burned to death in the oven, stupid," said his sister Starla.

"Well, _of course_ she died," Calvin said, "but what did they _do_ with her after that?"

Ketch rubbed his chin. "Actually, that's a very good question," he said. "Now that I think about it... I think, probably... Hansel and Gretel _ate_ her."

Starla wrinkled her nose. "Why would they do that?"

"Because... she smelled so damn _good_."

Krista shook her head and moved on to Sur La Table. She almost started at the sight of her sister with Bell. "Hey, Krista," Abbs said coolly. Bell darted to Krista.

"Ms. Kansas?" she said. "I got you a present." She held out a little blue stuffed rabbit.

Krista gave a perfunctory thank-you, and sat down. After a few minutes, she picked up a guitar and tried a few stylings. Looking for inspiration, her eyes locked on the bunny. "Oh, I... got a blue bunny and he sure looks funny! Wa wa wow wow- ow!" She touched her bulging belly. "Okay, so that wasn't very good, but let's see you do better." Bell giggled.

An hour or so of awkward chat passed, before Chacha appeared at the store entrance. The girl silently went to her mother, who departed without saying a word. When Krista looked Abbie in the eye, she abruptly teared up. "I... I asked to have a little... a little time with her." Krista rose and hugged her sister, and Abbs returned the embrace, but then turned and walked away.

Abilene found Austin cleaning his double. "Hi Austin," she said, then sat down and gazed at him.

After a few minutes of growing awkwardness, Austin said, "Do you need something?"

Abbs shook her head in sudden self-consciousness. "No. I'm okay," she said. But after another minute or so, she said, "Austin... is it- right... to love somebody who hurt you?"

Now her brother-in-law returned her gaze, thoughtfully. "Well... you can't really choose who you love," he said in a measured tone. "And when you love someone... you and him... or her... really can't get around hurting each other sometimes. I guess the only way around it is not to have people to love in the first place." She nodded, and hugged him, then got up and walked away. When she saw Krista approaching, she turned down another way.

"Austin," Krista said. She sat down in a chair and sighed. "Austin, do we need to talk?"

"I don't know," he said. Raising his eyes, he looked at her intently.

"Austin... you gotta know, I'm not leaving. Not unless you come with me."

He nodded. "Do you want me to go?" She sighed and shook her head. "Then I guess there really _is_ nothing to talk about."

"Austin?" Krista said after a long silence. He looked up at her. "I'll always love you."

After another long pause, he said, "I love you, too."

A half hour later, Krista was starting her third circuit of the mall. She had heard Lucy and Dagwood arguing, MJ and Gabriel talking over Mrs. Fidget's fussing, glimpsed Jay and Pearl exchanging sign language, and then heard Lucy and Dagwood again, obviously making up. Now, as she passed a fountain in front of a theater, she heard Maggie crying, and her father softly reassuring her. She started to move on, when she thought she heard movement. She paused, listening, but all she heard was Maggie's voice, saying, "But Daddy... _it'll hurt.._." She wheeled about and stalked, then ran for the theater entrance.

As she burst in, she pumped her stockless Mossberg, then froze in her tracks. John was on his feet, his face pale and his fly half-done. He stared wide-eyed at Chacha, who stood half in shadow, and reached out for his daughter. Chacha raised into full view a snub-nosed .38 and said, "Get away from her, you sick SOB."

**David N. Brown resides in Mesa, Arizona.**


	8. Baggage

**Now for some major drama... I originally thought of this as a concluding scene for "The Nevilles".**

"Panhandler," a minor biker called out politely. "We have the item you requested.

From inside the Caddy, Tal grunted, "Great! Just let me finish packing up..." Stepping out of the rear hatch, he yanked a deflated air mattress out from behind him. Various detritus- wrappers, articles of clothing, loose ammunition and one tarnished ring- fell out along with it. Something else lodged against the hatch with an audible crack. Tal yanked out the poorly wrapped parcel with obvious irritation. Then his face softened when he recognized it as the kite he had given Abilene for Christmas. "Damn. I didn't think she brought it with her. I think I can fix..." He looked self-consciously at the biker, and gingerly set down the kite. "Well, go ahead. Let's see it."

Two more bikers were already removing a tarp that covered the bed of a cargo truck. With a melodramatic flourish, one of them pulled off the tarp, to unveil a Gatling gun. "So, what we have here," the first biker said, "is a GE 5.56 mm Microgun, plus a package for a retractable pintel mount, fully-automated 4,000 round feed, and two thousand-round backup cases. Maximum rate of fire, 200 rounds per second."

"Nice!" Tal said, cracking his knuckles. But his gaze turned toward the Planet Hollywood building.

It was Abilene who woke up Austin. "Austin! Austin!" she shouted. "Something's going on in the theater. I think my sister has a gun on Chacha!"

"Did you see her?" Austin asked as they reached the fountain. MJ, Jay, Pearl,, Gabrielle, Sydney and two deadly twin-sister trapeze artists from the Circus were already there.

"No," Abbie said, "but Gabrielle told me they're in there with guns drawn, and I think I know the rest!"

"Stay here," Austin said curtly, and ran in.

He had never been in the V Theater before- really, very few people ever went in except John and Maggie- and he was struck at once by how subtly unnerving it was. Posters and other trappings from its life as a live theater and bar, hosting risque acts in both capacities, had been removed, frequently with enough force to leave visible damage behind. In their place were everything a middle-aged man might expect a little girl to like: pink hearts, and white horses, and cuddly puppies and kittens, and mounds of frilly pillows and stuffed animals of every shade. But the effort put into maintaining it had not been nearly as great as that of stocking it, so that dust was thick, water damage and occasional patches of mold abounded, and mouse droppings and dead roaches lay in plain view.

Krista stood a few paces inside the door, her Mossberg at ready but not pointed at anyone. Chacha stood, her face hard and cold, notwithstanding a single tear that ran down her cheek, holding a revolver with eerie steadiness. And then there was John, clutching his daughter and sobbing, "No. No. I won't let her go. I can't."

"What did you do?" Krista said.

"You know what he did," Chacha said, "and he isn't denying it."

John shook his head. "No. You don't understand..."

"Everybody, stop!" Austin shouted. There was no result except a lazily venomous glare from his wife.

"I understand," Chacha said. "You're a perv. You can't help it. You can't change it, neither."

John pulled Maggie closer, almost huddling behind his daughter. The girl wore a too-cute, frilly, antiquated dress nobody had ever seen her in before, with a short skirt and white stockings which at that moment went damply yellow, though her face remained as stiff and blank as a porcelain doll. "Please," he said, "I never wanted to hurt her." Krista turned the Mossberg decisively toward his face.

Then everyone jumped at the sound of Austin's double as he fired into the air. _"Listen to me!"_ he shouted. To his chagrin, just as all heads turned, a shower of plaster sprinkled him. "Guns down! Now!_** Everybody!**__"_

Chacha glanced at him and snorted contemptuously, but threw the revolver's safety. Austin looked to his bride. "Krista. _Krista._"

"You did," she said, staring at John. She sounded as if she were in a trance... or rehearsing a script written long ago, when the Zombieland was still the United States. "Didn't you? Look me in the eye and tell me you didn't. You did _that_, to **her**..."

Austin lowered his gun and stepped toward his wife. "Krista," he said firmly. Then, after a moment's hesitation, he rested a hand on her shoulder. "Krista. _It's not __him_."

She turned her head, ever so slightly. "It was somebody like him."

"Maybe," Austin said. "I don't know. But I do know... she was like her. And what would you want her to see?" Krista's arm began to tremble. Then, John moved.

As if acting from his own script, he stepped away from his daughter, then in front of her. "Go ahead," he said. "I can't be without her." Krista's lip twisted as she dropped the shotgun, and reached for a concealed knife. Austin gripped her arm.

Then the girl darted in, throwing her arms around the wretched man, and she shrieked, "Don't hurt my Daddy!" Finally, Krista untensed, her arms slowly dropping as she stared incredulously.

Only then did it register with Austin that they were no longer alone. The twins stepped in from both sides, one coaxing Maggie away while the other firmly held her father by the arm. Sydney stepped up, slapping his rock hammer in the palm of his hand, and John's face fell even further as the black man grinned.

Krista took three deep breaths, as Austin put his arm around her waist. Then her eyes met Chacha's, and the other woman looked to the crying little girl and said, "Are you going to blame her, too?" Then she holstered her weapon and stalked away.

David N. Brown

Mesa, Arizona


	9. Exits and Entrances

**This is the first post in a while, again, this time mainly because I've been doing something of a rush job an EXOTROOPERS Christmas ebook. But I sincerely intend for this to be the month I really get in gear wrapping up the Saga, and this chapter includes an important scene I have been planning. Incidentally, I was just today reading what seems to be the strongest indication yet that "Zombieland 2" won't happen. Definitely disappointing (particularly considering that they _are_ doing MIB III), but I have increasingly felt it's probably for the best. Having spent almost two years just writing this fan fic saga, I have frequently found it rather disconcerting how much has happened and changed in the meantime (the latest photos of Ms. Breslin are a particularly emphatic case and point), more than enough to make me feel that it's about time to wrap up loose ends and move on. Not that I'm not looking forward to writing the rest of this "finale", for which I am turning to Q to start things with a REAL bang...**

A few hours later, the mall was tranquil again, except for a faint sound that might be crying in front of Sur La Table. Abbie huddled in a darker recess, her face pressed to her knees, rocking forward and back. At the approach of soft footsteps, she buried her face deeper, further concealing herself with crossed arms. The steps halted. After a long silence, Abbs raised her reddened eyes, without showing her face.

"I'm sorry, Abbs," Chacha said. "I'm sorry for everything."

After an even longer silence, Abbs looked up enough to reveal her face, and stammered, "I... I w-wasn't even eight."

Chacha bent down, tears streaming from her own eyes. "And I was only thirteen."

Abbs hid her face again for a moment, but something in her had broken- or been set free. When she looked again, Chacha was on her knees, with a look of hope but not pleading. A moment later, they embraced, and after an even longer while, they rose and walked into the dark. Inside the store, Krista turned away with a stifled sob.

Dawn found Krista still fully clothed, huddled against her husband on the couch. She twitched but did not stir as footsteps approached, but then her eyes opened wide at the sound of Abbs' voice: "Krista." She looked up instantly, for a moment with joy, then with despairing certainty that her foster sister had come back to say goodbye. That was when Abbs threw her arms around her.

"C'mon," Abbs said, "did you really think I'd leave my big sister?"

Austin stood to one side of a crowd in front of Planet Hollywood. The famed road warrior bus/ mobile colony Il Deuce was the vehicle that pulled up at noon to pick up any departures from Planet Hollywood. More than fifty people waited at the curb, too many for the Scenicruiser to hold. Chacha stood on the curb, holding her daughter and holding hands with Maggie. Dagwood, Lucy and their children were also present. The majority of the crowd were from Treasure Island, though Austin recognized several faces from Circus Circus and even Sahara Casino, who evidently had traveled miles south just to leave an hour or two earlier.

As the bus doors opened, Krista put an arm around Austin's waist. "Okay," she said, "last call. You know what I want, but I'm done with the arguing. Stay or go; whatever you say, I'll do it."

Austin kissed her. "You were right the first time around," he said. "We stay together, as long as we can and I'm staying here." Krista nodded and rested her head on his shoulder, and slipped her other arm around Abbs.

"Well," Tal said to Branson, "it looks like we got 500 people right off the bat. That includes 100 able-bodied men. But... none of them."

Branson showed no concern. "But of course," he said. "I always knew that none of your companions would join me. Not even the girl."

Tal's face darkened, but also saddened. "So," he said, "you always thought we would break up?"

"`Thought' isn't the word," he answered, without looking up from a chart. "I wouldn't have gotten far, in my old job or my present position, if I didn't know how to read people. And frankly, what would happen with the four of you was like an earthquake in Japan: Unpredictable, but inevitable. Really, the most surprising thing is that your little group lasted as long as you did." Then he looked up, to meet Tal's stern stare. "I apologize if you don't care for my tone, Panhandler, but I have been very concerned that you don't... _romanticize_ your relationship with those you left behind. If there was ever a time and place for sentimentality, it passed when HPNE went Pandemic. I need you, Panhandler. I need to be sure that your loyalties and, even more, your attention, are undivided. Can I count on that, Panhandler?"

Tal nodded, and left.

"Really, this is working great," Abbie said over dinner. "And remember, if there's too much trouble, we can always send Krista to Henderson. That's where they moved the maternity stuff, anyway."

Week 48, Day 6

It was 5:00 in the morning, and the sunrise was unlikely to come soon enough for another day in Henderson. The outlier of the Vegas metro area had a volume of guns per capita that was remarkable even for the United States of Zombie Land, but the shooting had been dying down for some time. There were only shouts, frequent screams, the occasional modest explosion of a demolition charge or concussion grenade, and the dull roar of the engines of an M60 tank and its support vehicles, a self-propelled 155 mm howitzer and at least two APCs.

A trio of bikers did not even bother to dive for cover when a spray of assault rifle fire erupted from an annex of Henderson's small but well-equipped Dominican hospital. Only one of the three took a hit, which his bullet-proof vest easily absorbed. Weapons were promptly turned on the shooter's position as the bikers closed in on the hospital, clearly more concerned with getting to whatever could be found in the hospital as soon as possible than with avoiding any more hostile fire. The same one who had taken the hit stayed in the lead, until a single, VERY loud gunshot rang out. The other two looked to their partner, but all they could see were his empty boots. One of them promptly ran like hell; the other took cover behind a low wall, briefly considered what a weapon powerful enough to blow a full-grown man out of his footwear could do to cinder blocks, and _then_ ran like hell.

The professional mad-scientist gunsmith known as Q dropped down below the second-story window of the hospital, massaging the wrist of the hand that held the only handgun in the world capable of firing .50 heavy machine gun rounds. He had scared them off, but there would be more. The attack had come swiftly, stealthily and by surprise, but not with such surprise that the Hendersonites had not been able to do everything in their power in the time at hand to oppose the invasion. It hadn't been anywhere near enough. After a moment of further reflection, Q began testing the logistics of putting a gun with an eighteen-inch barrel to his own head.

Then he heard the sound. Q had boasted to Austin that his gun could pierce the frontal armor of an M113 armored personnel carrier. Well, the sound of engines drawing nearer did not belong to the tank that was undoubtedly heading his way as quickly as an orderly mop-up of resistance would allow, or the self-propelled gun that had broken every otherwise effective position the town militia had withdrawn to, but to an APC... an _M113_ APC.

In only a moment, he rose, and in no less time, he took aim. The undisputed and virtually indisputable Most Powerful Handgun Ever Built fired once, twice, then twice more. When Q staggered out the door, reeling from the sheer force of the recoil as much as fear of returning fire, a brick-like M113 was plowing at a drainage basin with smoke rising from the engine compartment.

Enid Oklahoma proudly and defiantly held his head above the cupola hatch of the Tank, though he was not so bold as to raise his whole upper body into view. The weathered vehicle with its covering of added armor plates, barbed wire and less identifiable detritus looked like a wreck to begin with, but in fact the only damage from the decidedly brief battle was a hole left by a flung demolition charge in the "skirts" that protected the sides of the tank, and a subtle grinding from the drive train behind it that would _definitely_ need looking at. The Tank's gun swiveled toward the hospital. "Hold yer fire!" he ordered curtly. "We want the place intact!"

As he spoke, sirens blared, and an explosion imploded the hospital. Enid growled at the sight of two escaping ambulances, one with Q clinging to the roof.

Enid was still looking disgruntled as the tank rumbled back into their staging post. A mechanic ran up in haste to examine the drive train, while another started a grim report on the state of the damaged APC. But the renegade virtually shrugged them off, to march straight to a semi-secluded supply truck. As he drew near, there was a hiss, and bloodshot eyes flared behind a sliver of a view slit.

"Hello, Nails," said Enid.


	10. Counting Costs

**Yet another segue, featuring a scene that should have been a ways back...**

Week 49, day 1

"We don't have anything close to a good estimate, but there were certainly not less than 100 Hendersonites killed," Bruce said. "However, survivors are still making their way in, and it looks like the losses were not as great as feared from the number of missing. We have no idea what kind of losses the attackers suffered, or indeed how many were involved in the attack, but by all accounts, casualties were substantial. The report that an M60 tank was destroyed in an engagement with defenders with demolition charges was _certainly_ incorrect, but it seems that such a vehicle was damaged and may be disabled. There are also substantiated reports that an APC was damaged quite seriously... possibly by Q's handgun." Austin nodded with a hint of a smile.

"There's no question that the attack was ordered by the individual known as Enid Oklahoma," Bruce continued. "Several survivors say they saw him riding the Tank. It was strictly `hit and run', undoubtedly with the hospital as primary objective. There was no effort to hold territory, or even to engage in large-scale looting. However, the attackers clearly went out of their way to destroy every defensible and strategically significant position, whether it was in their way or not. When they come back- and it's certainly a matter of _when_- it will be easier than it was before."

"What of the bikers already in the city?" Chief Sahara said.

"It seems that a contingent of the `Syndicate' engaged the group that attacked Henderson," Bruce said. "A number of survivors say that they escaped- or at least had an easier time doing it- because other bikers drove off their pursuers. As far as we can tell, Branson and most of those who came with him are still at a center of operations at the intersection of Tropicana Avenue and the Vegas Expressway. Ah... we also have a report that a new vehicle has arrived, a self-propelled gun... ah, evidently a very large gun..." Beside Austin, Abbie straightened, listening more attentively.

Week 48, Day 1

The M110 self-propelled howitzer was the largest by caliber ever put on the battlefield by the US military. Its 203 mm gun dwarfed its hull, and a second vehicle had been required to carry the 200-pound shells it fired. Not many had been built, and they had been used infrequently and without distinction. Officially, the last in the hands of the US military had been scrapped in the 1990s, but at a testing range south of Death Valley, Branson Missouri and his men had found a single specimen with three shells aboard. With heroic effort, they had restored the vehicle to mobility. Unfortunately, they had not been able to figure out what the shells were. Today, in the foothills of the mountains that divided California from Nevada, they would find out once and for all, by firing one.

Branson and Tal had stayed back from the advance on Vegas to witness the test. "Several artillery officers assured me this would be an ideal scenario for testing the shells' effects and effectiveness," Branson said. Tal declined the offer of a pair of binoculars, getting out his own instead. In a pass ten miles away, at least two thousand zombies were swarming down from the mountains. "The greatest problem in dealing with the horde- or hordes- is that the zombies' natural tendency is to spread themselves out according to highly variable conditions, mainly topography and the availability of food. Here, however, the convergence of several navigable paths has brought a number of swarm-class groups together. The pass itself is an ideal choke point. It's predicted that the mountains will actually magnify whatever effects a shell will have, with likely secondary effects from rock falls. Yet, those that survive should be easy to contain, without great risk to ourselves from the zombies or our own fire."

"What if the shell's nuclear?" Tal said.

"Oh, that was the first thing we ruled out," Branson said. "We did several sweeps with a pair of geiger counters, without finding any indication of radioactivity. We also used an x-ray test, and what we found is that the round is filled entirely with what appears to be a very fine _powder_. We also noted that the minimum range on the gun had been set for 2000 meters. So... would you like to do the honors?"

"You bet," Tal said. "Let's give it another minute or so... FIRE!" The gun thundered, and after a noticeable delay, the shell burst, well before hitting the ground. A cloud of something like dark gray, slightly reflective dust, noticeably ovoid in shape descended upon the pass. For a moment, both men wondered if it was a dud.

Then the cloud caught fire.

"HOLY F-!"

Krista turned and smiled as Austin returned to Sur La Table. "Hey. How was the-?" He stifled her question with a kiss, and did not break it as they hustled for the store room.

After, Krista stretched out on the couch, and Austin knelt beside her, an arm stretched out over her belly. "Krista, I need to tell you something," he said. She took his hand and smiled. "It's something I think we both know, but haven't been willing to admit... We can't hold out. Not here. Not anywhere in Vegas. If we're going to have a chance of surviving, we have to do things different.

"We have to let them in."

Enid Oklahoma looked angry enough to shoot the chief of his meager crew of mechanics, conceivably even in spite of the fact that the man's undistinguished skills were the only thing keeping his little armored corps from becoming useless junk. "I can fix the Tank," said the mechanic, "in five days. That's minimum, and I don't mean good as new, either... Look, see, a tank's running gear is like a horse's legs. You've got multiple systems with lots of parts. If one thing goes wrong with just one part, even a small thing that doesn't show right away, then _everything-_ the tracks, road wheels, suspension, transmission, even the engine- could literally collapse, tear itself apart, so bad nobody can put it back together. I've seen it happen. And with _the_ Tank, frankly, we just _can't _fix everything. Never mind the _time_ it would take; we don't even have enough of the right _parts. _If we did, we'd be a proper tank battalion, and we'd just as soon scrap _that_ tank the same way they'd put down a horse."

After an agonizing moment of brooding, Enid gave a curt nod. "Fine," he said. "The Tank's a tool, not a sacred cow. What about the APC that got shot up?"

"That can be operational in two days," the mechanic said, regaining confidence. "I could have fixed it already, but we didn't bring all the necessary parts with us."

"Good," Enid said. "We don't go back in without both APCs and the Tank, but if someone comes after us, we can take care of it. In the meantime, if we need to make a point, there's always the S'PiG..."

Austin was holding Krista's hand as they went to Chief Sahara. Both had the same subtle, hopeful smile. Sahara turned with a frown, and spoke first. "Texas... Your presence is wanted for a meeting."

Krista disengaged herself, pausing to plant a kiss on the back of her husband's neck. He followed Sahara to the entrance of the mall, and beyond. Austin stopped in his tracks at the site of the two men waiting outside.

"Austin," said Branson Missouri, "it seems we have some matters to discuss."

Beside him, and definitely not happy about it, stood Q.


	11. Fair trades

"The renegades came too fast for a full evacuation of the hospital," Q said. "We bought enough time to evacuate thirty-five staff and seven patients. I left with a pair of ambulances carrying the neonatal staff and as much or their equipment as we could carry. On the way out, we ran into a roadblock."

"...While you were being pursued," Branson said.

Q nodded grudgingly. "Yeah, there were about a dozen bikers tailing us," he said. "The guys manning the roadblock turned 'em back, right enough. The other three vehicles from the hospital had already been stopped. Maybe we would have made it ourselves, maybe not."

"So," Branson said, "it appears I have something of a monopoly on qualified and properly equipped medical personnel. Of course, I could also find a use for this evidently talented man, but we have arranged his safe passage here as a show of good faith."

"What do you want?" Austin said, sounding wary and weary.

"I want to move my base camp," the chieftain said, "to somewhere closer to the inhabited casinos. To Sahara, say, or the front of Circus Circus. Or perhaps the casino where you are currently residing. I am willing to negotiate."

"At any of those places, you would have control of the Boulevard," Austin said.

"All the better to defend your casinos, from the zombies and Enid," Branson said mildly.

"Or attack us yourself," Austin replied. "Or just step aside and let the others do your dirty work."

"These days," Branson said with a predatory smile, "trust is hard to come by. If it helps, as long as I'm doing a service to the casinos, I can always _ask_ for anything I need or want, can't I? So, resorting to force would be, if nothing else, rather... _unnecessary_, wouldn't it?"

"Yeah, I suppose you're right," Austin said. Then he mustered confidence: "But this isn't something I can approve- or refuse- on my own initiative. I will report your... request to my superiors, and they will decide what, if anything to do."

"Frankly, Texas, I doubt very much that anyone would stop you from doing whatever you wanted," Branson said. "I could take it as a sign of cowardice. But I'm willing to give you credit for knowing, the best way to show your strength is not to use it."

"That _is_ a good philosophy," Austin said. "Of course, you _do_ follow it..."

"As a rule," Branson said coolly.

"I wouldn't have guessed that, from the last time we met."

"Yes. I suppose I didn't give a good impression then. I hope we have started to turn over a new leaf. But, there is something else, which I'm afraid isn't going to help, and I must emphasize is _not_ my idea... _She_ is wanted at our camp. You know who I mean. It might be difficult to make any further arrangements if that request isn't granted."

"That will be her decision," Austin said.

"To be sure," said Branson. "So, I suppose, if you are not ready to make an agreement, and there is nothing else you would like to discuss, I should return to my men."

"I suppose. Take care."

"I will." Branson left without another word, pausing only a moment at Abbie's sudden entrance.

"Austin! Come quick!" she said. "I think it's time!"

Austin rushed after her. His most coherent response was a refrain that sounded increasingly like suspicion: "It's too soon! _It's too soon!_ _It's too soon!_"

Enid surveyed a dozen prisoners from the hospital, within a newly erected enclosure. He had heard stories about how hordes of defeated Nazis had sought out any American soldier they could surrender to, simply to get away from the Soviets. He had been thinking of those stories often as his men rounded up staff from the hospital. Even before the hospital had been taken, they had been coming out of the woodwork, still in scrubs and uniforms, with ID badges ready for examination. Clearly, they were confident that their abilities would protect them from harm or abuse. Even now, the renegade was debating whether to validate their assumption.

"Now, I'm sure there's nothing any of you wants more than to help people," Enid said with a charmed tone. "You don't pick sides, and believe me, that's just _fine_ with me. Hey, I'm a little like that myself. I don't ask about good or bad; I ask, what's in it for me? So, I don't care if you helped anybody I don't like. And if you helped any of your colleagues get away from me, I wouldn't hold even that against you.

"But then there's that explosion in the main building. I wasn't expecting that. Made me sad, really. Sad and puzzled. I wouldn't think any of you would have anything to do with something like that, and I just about took it as a given you didn't. Still, I had a guy look over it, just to be sure. He's one of the pros, and he's assured me, it was done by another pro. That gets you off. 'Cept, he told me something else. Apparently, the damage isn't really even that bad. Just enough in just the right places to keep anyone from using the place for a while. And to do that, even a real pro would need help from somebody who really knew the hospital. That means somebody on the hospital staff, and pretty high at that, and I think that's one of you."

He turned a long, hard stare down the line, looking for that certain look. He didn't see it yet but he was close... Then a particularly old man he had already discounted, evidently a senior administrator, stepped forward. "I did it," he said. "I don't want anybody else to pay for it."

"Very well," Enid said. "Come here, and we'll work something out." He stepped out of the gate, and the old man followed. Then the biker shut the gate.

"If you say you're responsible," Enid said, "I'm sure you can think of ways for it to be true whether you did it or not. Now watch how much good that does them." At his signal, his henchmen opened another gate in haste, one that went directly into the back of a truck. From within came a snarl, and then... laughter.

The screams lasted for an hour.


	12. Labor pangs

Week 49, day 2

Austin addressed the gathered fighting men (and women) of the Planet Hollywood colony, and many more who watched by video feed. "Hannibal is considered one of the best generals of all time, despite the fact that he fought in the service of a nation that was effectively destroyed more than two millennia ago," he said. "Many consider his greatest victory, perhaps the greatest of all time, to be Cannae, won against a much larger Roman force fighting on Rome's own soil. The key to his success was an extremely effective execution of a double encirclement. He allowed a large part of his force to be seemingly trapped. But, even as Hannibal himself led a retreat, his cavalry circled to attack the Romans from the rear. The result was the virtual annihilation of more than eighty thousand Romans."

He uncovered a tacked-up floor plan. "Now, consider the layout of the Planet Hollywood hotel-casino mall area..." The area under consideration was a perfect circle.

Krista had thought less about when she would give birth than about when her child had been conceived. She had kept track of every one of their unions, and settled on four she would be happy to consider the moment of conception. She ran through the crystallized moments as she lay recovering from the pain...

A touch on her shoulder woke her, and she started when she saw, not her husband or her sister, but Jack Ketch. "I know, I know," he said, brushing the visible traces of lesions on his face, "even with these going out, I'm nobody's idea of a looker."

"What are you doing here?"

"Didn't the- well, your husband tell you? For as long as you're here, I'm your nurse."

"You're kidding." She brushed her belly, and verified the baby was still inside her.

Ketch rose to his feet. "There's things even I don't joke about, P- Mrs. Kansas. And don't think he was doing me a favor. He asked around, to see, of all the people in here, who had the _best _training and experience in medical matters. As it turns out, that's me. Especially where it comes to your particular condition. And incidentally, what you have is a case of Braxton-Hicks."

"You mean false labor," she said, sitting up with a grunt. She added with unmistakeable hope, "I_ knew_ it was too early."

"I wouldn't say that," Ketch said. "I'd say pretty _far_ from it, actually. Babies getting born is more like meteorology than rocket science. They all go at their own pace, and at the end of the day, they mostly do what they bloody well please when they bloody well ready want to. And that little one you have is as ready as they get without getting out."

"So, what... I'm _over_due?"

"Now, I didn't say that," said Jack Ketch. "I wouldn't, neither."

"So when _am_ I due?"

"Look, what I'm tryin' to say," Ketch replied with pointed patience, "is, that's just not my department, luv." He turned and walked out.

"Going back to Hannibal," Austin said, "the reason why such a great general could win such a great victory as Cannae but still lose the war was a failure to follow up and press forward. For Hannibal, this was nearly inevitable: He had a sea between his army and home, and a mountainous, hostile countryside ahead of him. At the end of the day, he was lucky to get as far as he did. But we don't have that excuse. We're on our home turf, and its heart is a stretch of road a few miles long. Here at Planet Hollywood, we have the makings of a trap that can kill thousands, even tens of thousands, and draw even more away from the inhabited casinos. But that's not enough.

"To defeat the horde, there has to be a second, greater double encirclement. As zombies are drawn away from the casinos, forces will need to _follow _them, until the horde besieging Planet Hollywood is itself encircled. I know it will be risky, but it's the only way to win. That's why I'm willing to take the biggest risk myself, and stay here, in the Planet Hollywood mall."

In the uppermost tier of Branson's trailer, the biker chief and his new lieutenant watched the broadcast. Tal was laughing out loud. "Holy *, what'd I tell ya?" he said. "You'd think he'd be a pushover, and most of the time, he acts like it, but when he gets going- damn, he's a regular cold-blooded killing machine! And y'know, this plan of his could work!"

"Yes," Branson said, gazing moodily out the panoramic front window toward Planet Hollywood. "We might have to do something about it..."


	13. Trial run

Week 49, day 4

"All right," Austin said to the volunteers gathered outside the Ocean One Bar and Grill, "I've already announced what I want to do. But I'm not going to do it without a test, to establish whether it's practical to contain and eliminate a large group of zombies within the mall. That's where we come in."

He waved down a corridor that branched out from the ring of the main corridor, through a secondary structure containing several restaurants and out onto Harmon Avenue. "In two hours, that entrance will be opened, for a period of one hour, as will be the entrances to several restaurants. I expect between one hundred and five hundred zombies to enter this section of the mall. Your job is to make sure none of them gets past here. You are to man strategic positions throughout. You will have broad discretion to deal with threats or opportunities as they emerge, but you are not to leave your posts without a direct order. Not to chase a zombie; not to investigate a sound; not even to assist someone at another post. Remember, what I've set up is an absolutely ideal situation for controlling a zombie incursion. If we can't maintain order now, we can't expect to do any better when the stakes are much higher. That will be all."

As the volunteers dispersed, Austin stepped right up to one in particular. "Jack Ketch," he said sternly. "I know your name wasn't on the list."

The ex-leper shrugged. "I go by lots of names," he said.

"I thought I made it clear," Austin said, "your main responsibility is to be ready to help Krista."

Ketch grinned. "Well, you've probably noticed, she's wanting a bit more personal space," he said. "So, I'm giving it to her." The grin subtly changed, to something darker. "This also seemed like the best way to keep her away from you." Austin stiffly turned, and went to his command post across the hall.

Only six or seven of zombies came in when the crowd-control gates opened, and only a dozen more came in during the first ten minutes. But by the fifteen-minute mark, the entrance was positively bustling. Most wandered directly into a sea food buffet on the left, or a Latin bar and grill next door. "We're definitely over one hundred, and we got more comin'," Nogales reported from his lookout post across the street. "Hey- uh. Huh. Never mind."

The radio crackled with the voice of Sydney, with the sound of munching zombies in the background. "What, did you see something?"

"I thought, maybe... No. Probably nothing."

"`Probably' doesn't cut it today, kid. What did you see?"

"I thought, maybe..."

A minute later, Sydney's voice broke in over Austin's command frequency. "We got a problem," said the Australian. "The Capp came in."

The zombie that wandered up to the Oyster Bay bar, across the way from Ocean One, was alone. Seeming more curious than aggressive, it sniffed at a lowered barrier. The attack was swift. Jack Ketch ran around a corner, swung a croquet mallet- and missed. For a moment, the zombie stared at the leper, seeming neither frightened nor angry, but only- puzzled? Then it turned and shuffled the other way. That was when it was struck in the ear with a golf club.

"That's our sixth customer to wander this far," Austin said over the radio. "Time to open up Ocean One."

Within seconds, the crowd control barriers across the hall started to open. Meanwhile, just outside the command post, Abbie gave Ketch a funny look over the stunned zombie. "What was that about?" she said.

"I could have hit that zombie in the dark, before," he said, sounding sad and vaguely bewildered. "There were times I did do it, too. Now... it's all about senses. Senses, timing and practice. Change just one thing, one little thing that has to be different... and it all goes away. No, it's worse than that. What you learned, it weighs you down."

Abbie was hurriedly pulling a plastic bag over the zombie's head. "Well, this guy weighs a lot," she said sardonically. "So are you going to help me get him out of the way?"

The smell of sea food hung heavy in the buffet, but it wasn't sea food that had been spread out on the serving tables. Instead, the zombies were offered an array of their known favorite foods, all definitely well past "sell-by" dates but still appetizing (at least to the zombies' admittedly undiscriminating tastes), ranging from peanut butter to canned peaches to pieces of other zombies. They quickly crowded in, scuffling and snarling yet rarely descending into open battle. There really was food for many if not most, and the zombies were too focused on getting a share to be diverted by quarrels. Many did not even look up when the crowd-control barriers dropped back down, sealing them inside. But one head that was raised bore an English flat cap, and the owner quickly started moving away from the buffet.

The hunters struck swiftly and suddenly, firing double-taps and short bursts from a motley assortment of weapons. The main thrusts came from out of the kitchens and through an outside rear entrance, but the most disproportionately devastating charge attack from a handful who swung down from the roof and right through the windows, led by a black man swinging a rock hammer. It was slaughter, pure and simple, no more sporting than shooting sardines in a can. By far the greatest risk borne by the hunters was being hit by their own crossfire, and more effective resistance was offered by the mass of the zombies' dead than any of the living. Over the din of the guns and through the charnel house stench came the Australian's bellows, _"Get the Capp! Find the Capp! Where's the Capp?"_

Sydney, increasingly frustrated, stooped to drive the pointed end of his hammer into the skull of a twitching zombie on top of a heap of bodies. The zombie gave a last spasm, and Sydney let out his breath in a vaguely gratified hiss. Then he set about pulling the hammer back out. That was when the heap violently heaved. Sydney went down under the body of the very zombie he had dispatched. Up rose the body of one zombie, borne over one shoulder of another, who wore a British flat cap. The black man's shouted curse drew the attention of every hunter in the restaurant, but the only ones who mattered were the three who stood between Andy Capp and the rear entrance.

Two hunters dived out of the way at the very sight of a .22 submachine gun. The other stood at the mouth of a corridor that led to the door. Whether by courage or necessity, he stood his ground before the lumbering zombie. He drew a Colt pistol in time to fire off a single shot into the Capp's lifeless burden before the sub gun fired with a shrill shriek that drowned out the hunter's last scream.

Austin stood on an improvised podium with a megaphone to announce the end of the battle. "The operation," he said with unmistakeable grimness, "is a success. Yes, we didn't get them all. Of course, we had losses. But we wiped out a swarm's worth of zombies, and most importantly, none of them got in anywhere we didn't want them to." His shoulders sagged as he stepped down. Then he strode to the containment line, to meet his wife before she talked her way through.

He started and turned at a screech from his sister-in-law. Even Krista froze. "Damn it," Abbie screeched, sounding more indignant than fearful, "you were supposed to hit 'im again!" She backed away from a sprawled zombie that was clawing a plastic bag off of its head. Jack Ketch, standing between the zombie and the containment line, only drew his kukri. The zombie rose, turned toward the ex-leper and bared its teeth with a hiss.

"Bite me, ya sonnuvabitssh," Ketch said. The zombie growled, and took a step back. Ketch advanced, and the zombie withdrew again. Then, suddenly, Ketch slashed with the forward-swept edge into his own arm. _ "Bite me goddammit!" _


	14. The Calm

"Jack!" Austin shouted. "Jack, don't do this!"

"Not your call, Samaritan," Jack Ketch said. He shook his arm, shedding droplets of blood in the direction of the zombie. The zombie growled... and stepped back.

"What the hell?" Krista murmured. "If he was another zombie, that thing would be going for him nine times out of ten!"

"Jack!" Austin pressed, "is this really what you want to do? You paid a price to get where you are now: Here, with us, _as_ one one of us. Human."

Ketch's lips contorted in a silent snarl. "Don't insult your own intelligence," he said. "I see how people look at me. I hear how they talk. Freak. Cannibal. Killer. Outcast of the outcasts. Why not go back?"

"Because you've come too far to come back," Austin said. "Because, even if you could... Do you really want people to say you were the one who came this far, and quit?"

Ketch looked past the zombie at Austin, and at Krista behind him. "Is that really what you think?" he asked, not quite rhetorically. "That _you_ wouldn't have things back the way they were?"

Austin felt Krista's hand slip into his, and he squeezed. "Yes," he replied.

Ketch's gaze turned back to the zombie, and hardened. "That's your choice, Samaritan," he said, "and maybe it's the best- for you, and the people you're with. But I have to make my own choices for myself, and I have my own people to think about."

Austin frowned. "What do you mean, Jack?" he said. "Is there someone in trouble out there? If so, I'll do everything I can to help."

"It's not your problem," Ketch said, "and you have trouble enough of your own."

Suddenly, Abbie stepped between Ketch and the zombie. Austin stifled Krista's shriek. "That's BS, Jack," she said. "I might not know you the way he does, but I know you're one of us. You're one of us because there's people here counting on you. So suck it up, because if you want to go so bad, you're going through me."

Krista gave a screech of alarm, and someone cocked a gun. Abbie took a deep breath as the zombie stalked closer. Then, in a motion too swift to follow, Ketch lunged in and struck over her head to split the zombie's skull like a melon.

As night fell, the zombies were still noticeably thinned, though the ones that remained were more active. Inside the mall, people were still milling around, talking, and frequently taking respectful, curious or nervous glances at Jack Ketch. The ex-leper, meanwhile, sat quietly to one side, and Abbie sat beside him.

Abbie stood up at the shout of a sentry. Outside, a truck, an SUV and a squadron of bikes pulled up to the side entrance. The larger vehicles were instantly recognizable as Branson's Dodge D200 and Tal's Caddy. Abbie darted to the door, but halted at a stern look from Austin. He stepped out of the door, and Sydney and two Amazonesque sisters from Circus Circus's trapeze act followed. Only Branson came to meet them, emerging from the rear door of the crew-cab truck.

"I gather," the chieftain said, "that you had a busy day. And a fairly successful one."

"That's right," Austin said. "We successfully tested a method of eliminating a large number of zombies in an indoor environment."

"Impressive," Branson said coolly. "I'm very interested in learning more about your techniques."

"I'm sure you are," Austin said, in a pointedly neutral tone.

"Have the casinos made any decision about my... requests?" Branson asked, shifting subjects.

"Treasure Island, Circus Circus and Sahara are all prepared to house some of your men," Austin said. "Treasure Island has offered the Buccaneer Bay pool area, the other two have adjacent properties you can use."

"That would spread us out across the strip," Branson said. "We would be stronger at a single location."

"That was considered," Austin said. "It was decided that it was a fair tradeoff."

"If I wanted to keep my men together, where might we go?" Branson asked. "Surely, there's some unoccupied casino..."

"Not nearly as many as you might think," Austin said. "On the strip, most of the large properties are either already full, or too damaged to stay in safely. It would be easier to find a location off-strip. Specifically, there's the Hard Rock casino, east of the Boulevard, or Stratosphere in the north... We concluded either would be acceptable."

"...For our needs," Branson said with a subtle, sardonic smile. "I see you don't care for pretenses. But trust me, I'm used to it... Ah, another thing, we would be glad if that fellow, the one who makes the big guns... Q? Well, we would be glad to have his services. We ran across a few... unusual pieces of technology, that he might be able to tell us about."

"That would be his choice, but I'm sure he would give it due consideration," Austin said.

"Yes, I expect he would," Branson said. He handed over a folder. "You can show him these. Ahh... one other thing... how is Ms. Kansas doing?"

"Mrs. Kansas is doing fine," Austin said, his voice turning colder. "If that will be all." He promptly turned away and went back inside. Abbie pushed her way out, just in time to lock eyes with Tal before he drove away.

"Jack," Abbie said, later. There was a pause before she spoke the question: "Have you ever _knew_ you _had_ to do something... but you couldn't do it?"

After a long pause, the ex-leper answered, "Sounds like the story of my life." Abruptly, he stood up, then paused to take Abbie's outstretched hand.

Together, they marched for the exit.


	15. Countdown

**Sorry for the long hiatus. I REALLY plan to get things in gear this week. And sorry this is still mostly segue, but at least it's longer, and ends with one BIG twist. **

Week 49, day 5

"Ah, yes," Q said, "I know these plans. I created them. Though, it appears, others took my work considerably further..."

Krista sat beside Austin at the other end of the table. She had shown no grief when she was told her sister had left in the night, nor even mentioned it of her own accord. The only difference was that she had not left her side. While the others, Bruce, Sydney, and Chief Sahara, took frequent glances at her, none had ventured to question why she was present in a meeting where she had no capacity to act.

"The project originated with a deceased colleague of mine," Q continued, too wrapped up to pay attention to the young woman. "It was really nothing more or less than an exercise in theory. He built one gun, and made a handful of demonstrations before abandoning the project. It was interesting enough to be reported fairly widely, in professional circles, and at some point the military took interest. I was approached to conduct further development of the concept, after my colleague himself declined. I think the best way to explain the concept is visually... This is a standard .50 Browning heavy machine gun cartridge," he said, holding up a round as long as his hand. With his free hand, he held up a sheet of paper. "This is an actual-size representation of an experimental cartridge known as the `Fat Man'."

The photo on the sheet showed another .50 round. But, the bullet was a smaller projectile in a plastic sabot, and the case was substantially shorter and _much_ wider. "As you can see, the bullet is a standard .50 BMG Saboted Light Armor Penetrator. The case is my own design, derived from a 20 mm cannon shell... Based on preliminary tests, it was projected that a SLAP bullet in a `Fat Man' case could achieve muzzle velocities approaching or exceeding 1500 meters per second, and penetration of 5 to 6 cm of RHA steel... I gave it my best, of course, but, as I warned them, there was simply no chance of developing the concept into a_ practical _small arm..."

Krista spoke abruptly. "Wait a minute... _HE warned them?_"

All eyes turned toward her, except for Q, who merely cleared his throat. "And now let's consider the M60 tank..." He held up two pictures, one of a tank in the jungles of Vietnam, the other of Enid's Tank on its rampage through Henderson. "Despite obvious additions to the armor by the raiders, and major modifications by the military before that, the Tank retains the specs of an M60A1, first fielded in 1963. On the whole, that's good news for us: It does not have the laser range-finder or `fire-on-the-move' capabilities introduced with the A3 upgrades. Even more importantly, it does not have Explosive-Reactive Armor.

"Now the bad news. Branson claims he does not have man-portable anti-tank missiles capable of destroying the tank by brute force. I don't believe him, but it's probably for the best if we don't use them. Anti-tank missiles were never well-suited to urban warfare. Most modern examples have a built-in minimum arming range of at least 70 meters. Their backblast is dangerous in enclosed spaces, and, along with the trail of rocket exhaust easily give away a firer's position. Their electronics can be difficult for an inexperienced user. In many ways worst of all, if a fully-loaded tank is hit with a weapon with sufficient force to destroy it outright, then the resulting explosion can do even more damage than the active tank. That makes the Fat Man is our best option for stopping the Tank- and in all likelihood, I'm the only one who can use it effectively."

"All right," Bruce said after a little further discussion, "it's agreed... We send Q to Branson." He glanced at Krista. "While he's there, he can keep us appraised if Ms. Abilene or Ketch are seen."

"Well, you can't deny it has a view," Branson said as he stepped from the elevator into the main observation level of the Stratosphere Tower. "Was it as they described?"

"Nowhere close," said Duke, one of his more competent and trusted lieutenants. There's no way that the structure was uninhabited for the duration. There was definitely a zombie infestation, and at least one person who was really looking after the place- probably till close to when we arrived. The kicker is, there's few signs of any attempts at forced entry, and virtually no evidence of gunfire. That means the casinos never even properly searched the place. My guess is, a scouting party went in once, and came back with a story that was designed to keep anyone else out. The bosses had to know it was a crock of BS, but they really didn't know any better."

"Interesting... but nothing to be concerned about," Branson said. "Now let's have some entertainment for the troops..."

Abbie and Jack Ketch gazed at the spire of the tower. "Does it still feel like home to you?" the girl asked.

Ketch shook his head. "Never did," he said, with a hard edge in his voice. "A brother's got no home." Nevertheless, he continued to stare.

"Are you going in?" Abbs further questioned.

"No, I cleaned out everything I wanted before I left," Ketch said. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

"I have to," Abbs said.

"Well then, take care of yourself."

"You too."

Abbs stepped forward, and as she did, a voice suddenly blared, which made her halt in her tracks as it declared: _"I am the god of hellfire, and I bring you... __**FIRE!**__"_

Then the immortal voice of Arthur Brown went into gleeful song:

"_You fought hard and you saved and earned, but all of it's gonna burn. And your mind, your tiny mind, you know you've really been so blind... Oh no, oh no, oh no... __**FIRE! **__I'll take you to burn... __You've been living like a little girl, in the middle of your little world... Now 's your time burn your mind, you're falling far too far behind. Oh no, oh no, __**oh no**__... __**FIRE! **__I'll take you to learn... You're gonna burn... You're gonna burn... GONNA BURN BURN BURN __**BURN**__-" _Then words were replaced by laughter.

"Mmm... MMm... Tha's good... Okay... Keep going... !" Krista toppled ponderously backward on the couch, wrapping her arms tightly around herself. Austin rose from his knees, admiring his satisfied bride, then bent down to kiss his bride.

"Thank you," Krista said. "You're sure you don't want to-?"

"I want this to be all about you," Austin said with a smile, then blushed. He still had all his clothes on, but there was no hiding his own reactions his wife's pleasure. Krista beckoned, and he kissed her again.

"Don't give me that pseudo-selfless BS," she said.

"The baby," Austin said sternly at the crucial juncture, and his wife gave a curt nod and pushed him to arm's length.

When it was done, Austin was stretched out in his altogether on the couch, and Krista knelt on the floor in her bathrobe. "Okay..." he said, "I definitely needed that."

Krista kissed him. "Happy to help," she said, and kissed him. By the time their lips parted, here robe was open enough for him to feel her gravid belly.

"I... I suppose you shouldn't stay," Austin said.

Krista nodded sadly. "If I go, will you come with me?"

"I... I... Well. You know, that battle I told you about. There's one thing I've thought a lot about. Hannibal put himself in the middle of the encirclement, and I wonder, if that wasn't the key to the victory. Not because Hannibal was on the spot to give orders, at least not just that... but because, just by being there, he showed that he had enough faith in his plan to stake his own life on it. Maybe, just maybe, that was the reason his men stood their ground to keep the enemy where he wanted them, instead of breaking- trying to surrender, or fight their way out, or just... giving up."

Krista nodded again. "So, what would his men have thought... if his wife had been there, and he sent her home?" Austin nodded in turn, with an even sadder look. Krista kissed him again, and after a moment of silence, whispered with a smile: "Maybe he could have told them... it was because he expected to come home." He returned the smile, and they embraced, though tears streamed from both their eyes.

The doors of the elevator had not shut before Branson heard the voice: "Not exactly subtle, is it?"

Branson turned with a smile. "Ms. Abilene," he said. "Always... interesting." His smile was met with a cold stare. A long silence passed before he said, "So, what brings you here?"

"We need to talk," Abbie said. "Well, somebody needed to."

"Perhaps you can tell me, then, how things are really going at Planet Hollywood."

"'Bout as well as they could be," Abbs said with a shrug.

"Any further word about Enid Oklahoma?"

"Nope." Abbs seated herself, slouching with every appearance of boredom.

"Well, then," Branson said, annoyance finally creeping into his voice, "why are you here?"

"Krista's having her baby soon. I mean, really soon," Abbs said. Then she added, almost nonchalantly: "It's yours."


	16. Final departures

Week 49, Day 6

A veritable convoy escorted the Tremors Truck from Planet Hollywood up to Circus Circus. There were a dozen vehicles in all, ranging from the road warriors' behemoth Il Deuce bus to the Lilliputian BMW Isetta that Bruce, commander of TI, used as his personal vehicle. The onslaught of the horde had overrun the Circus parking lot, but the vigilantly-guarded barbed-wire perimeter of the park still held the zombies at bay, and provided a marginally safe harbor for inbound vehicles. From the gates of the casino, from the RVs and trailers, from the windows and rooftops of the Circus and the neighboring Slots-A-Fun and Day's Inn buildings, thousands and tens of thousands watched, and then cheered, as Austin stepped out of the cab. He waved to the crowd, and then circled to the passenger side, while business-like crews of guards and workmen hurried out to the vehicles. Then the throngs cheered louder as he opened the door and helped Krista down. She leaned down to whisper in his ear, and then they kissed, to still louder cheers. Austin waved once more, and then climbed back in. Already, Krista was being hustled away by a pair of guards. She did not hesitate, but took one lat look over her shoulder, and her eyes locked piercingly with Austin's.

Semi-automatic gunfire, rising and falling but never halting, kept the zombies away from the park entrance while crew of volunteers did their work. Crates of supplies were unloaded from Il Deuce and a companion panel van, and lesser loads were handed off to or from people in other vehicles. A squad of fighting men got off Il Deuce, and a score or so, mainly women and children got aboard. Two Circus patrol vehicles from the convoy pulled into an inner gate, and half a dozen came out In a matter of minutes, it was done. Those who were to stay hurried behind the inner gate, and those who were not returned to their vehicles. The gunfire intensified as any zombie near the main gate was cut down. Within, Il Deuce circled ponderously. The bus did not slow as it approached the gate, which was only just beginning to open. It seemed a close thing, but the bus cleared the gate well enough, already nosing into a turn that wiped out a pack or two worth of zombies. The majority of the departing vehicles followed the bus as it turned north, and then west. The road warriors had made their last delivery, and now they were going back on the road.

Austin looked sadly after them, almost waiting too long to start for the gate behind the Isetta. The microcar's small size allowed it to squeeze through the regathering zombies without great difficulty, and Sydney rose from the sunroof to blow away a few that looked ready to make trouble. With the zombies somewhat thinned and decidedly distracted, Austin had to do little more than stomp the gas. As bodies bounced off the grill, he pondered Krista's words: _"Whatever you have to do... come back."_

Branson's expression was equally somber as he stared at the departing Tremors Truck. He watched through binoculars, from the top tier of his towering trailer, which was parked with his truck in a lot next to Sahara Casino. The rest of the vehicles followed quickly, and soon the gates were shut again. He watched until the truck disappeared from view, less because of distance than because of the regrouping zombies. For a moment longer, his gaze lifted to the horizon. Finally, he turned and descended to exit the trailer. As he climbed back into the cab, he reached for a CB radio and immediately gave the order: "I'm coming back… Have _her_ ready to meet me."

Abbie sauntered jerkily out to meet him at the foot of Stratosphere. "So, where's Tal?" she demanded.

"I sent him out just before you came," Branson said coolly. "Once we had a secure base here, I sent him back to the south. His instructions are to check for and if absolutely necessary eliminate any sizable zombie group following behind us, and also to scout out the Hard Rock casino as a possible second base. He should be returning this evening."

"Did you tell him I'm here?"

"Why would I?" The chief lit a cigar, and signaled his underlings to extend an awning from the side of his trailer.

"You want to keep us apart," Abbie said as they sat down in the shade, "don't you?"

"Ms. Abilene," Branson said, "I can appreciate why you might wish to believe otherwise, but I assure you, any disruption of your.- shall we say, group?- is none of my doing. All I ever did was make an offer to the one person I could tell would want to leave. That was… all."

Abbie crossed her arms and glowered. "I don't believe you," she said.

Branson smirked and pulled out a book to read.

The Hard Rock Hotel and Casino was dominated by an eleven-story tower and a scarcely less obtrusive giant neon guitar, a short distance east of Planet Hollywood. At least 30 zombies trailed the Caddy and a squadron of bikes toward the casino, and well over a hundred broke from the gathered horde at Planet Hollywood to move into their path. The Caddy turned sharply, plowing aside a wrecked car, to lead the bikers and trailing zombies down a narrow side street. The zombies' ranks spread thin as they changed direction, but they quickly began to cluster back together. While they were spread out, anyone who had been looking could easily have spotted a single zombie wearing a flat cap. By the time the zombies were back into a solid throng, the street was narrowing into a choke point.

That was when the Caddy stopped. The zombies came faster, in all likelihood further enticed by a mechanical whirring as the roof split, and a cluster of machinery rose.

For blocks, the sound was heard, a sound like the report of a single shot. Plus, the cries of the few zombies that had time to scream.

Of more than a hundred zombies in the street, one still stood. But, there was something strange: Daylight shone through its chest. It raised one hand, with a pointing finger to the sky, as if poised to make an eloquent protest at the enemy's unsporting conduct. Then it snorted out one spray of blood and pitched face-first to the asphalt.

"Now that," Tal cried out as he stood tall in the gun mount, "is what I call zombie kill of the week!"

Off to one side, Andy Capp pressed against the wall of a building. He gave a thoughtful "ukkh", straightened his flat cap, and patted his submachine gun.


	17. Backstage

**Sorry for another long delay. A little intrigue this time, and I'll DEFINITELY get to the action next chapter. This chapter refers back to the "Nevilles" storyline, including a hobby I made up for a character after I already posted the first draft.**

Week 49, day 7

Tal leaned halfway out the window and whooped as he drove the Caddy back to Stratosphere at dawn. "We wiped out a hundred zombies in ten seconds!" he shouted. The bikers swarmed in to congratulate. Then his eyes locked on one smaller figure who stood beside Branson's trailer. For a moment, eyes locked piercingly. Then Abbie turned and trudged out of sight.

Inside Miracle Mile Shops, everyone was busy. Ultimately, a force of 257 fighters from all over Vegas had been assembled to fight the planned incursion of the horde. There had been enough volunteers to make the number a thousand, while if some casino leaders concerned with their own defense had had their way, not even a hundred would have been allowed to come. The preparations had been as gradual as the uncertain influx of volunteers, but now, a final burst of preparations was required.

In the rear parking structure, a small motorpool of vehicles were being prepared for combat. Two parking shuttles had been transformed into virtual armored personnel carriers. A golf cart built in the likeness of a Humvee had been fitted with roll gear and improvised armor. The Tremors Truck had shed a slide-in camper in favor of a medium machine gun mount. A weird little mutation known as the Blue Bullet was largely untouched, as its absurdly narrow frame and the previous addition of rear submachine guns already approached perfection in bringing lethality into small spaces. Even the meek Isetta now bore a firing port in the door that was its front.

At the front, barricades and guard posts were being dismantled, as the men, weapons and material were pulled back into the mall. In the main corridor, firing ports were cut in store fronts, and kiosks were fitted out like miniature bunkers. New barricades were thrown up, some to protect store fronts, some to block a stretch of corridor, and some only sweeping to either side of a choke point as if to invite the zombies in. Inside the stores themselves, every warrior not occupied with other tasks was cleaning a weapon, or performing calisthenics, or practicing a combat move, or some other small thing to prepare for the coming battle.

The work was busiest at the rear of the ring, on the same stretch of corridor where Austin had been living with the first survivors to take shelter in the mall. It was there that he spent much of his time now. Barricades were clustered thickly to protect the store fronts, and further served to create a choke point at either end.

"This is where everything comes down to the wire," Austin said to a small assembly of Sydney, Bruce, Jay and the remainder of the original colonists inside Sur La Table. "From the strong points we are building here, we can send out supplies and personnel through the access corridors behind the shops, or pull them back. We can even receive reinforcements, through the parking garage. If things go according to the plan, the final counterattack will be launched from here. If the plan fails, this will be our best, if not only, means of escape.

"There's one detail, especially, that I haven't told anyone about yet. The center of the `ring' is a very large theater, which has been sealed for the duration. The backstage areas of the theatre should merge with the access corridors for the inner shops. So, I figure, if we get more zombies than we can handle any other way, the personnel in the inner ring can fall back to the theatre, fight from the stage, and if necessary, retreat out the back and all the way to the garage!... What?"

Jay spoke, even as he looked down at his shoes. "Well… there's a problem with the theater…"

Jay showed Austin and Sydney to the backstage entrance. The door was blocked with a fridge turned on its side, and close examination revealed several welds. A slit window was covered with a drop cloth. Austin raised the cloth and looked sternly inside. "No active… No, I see one… two…"

"When did you lock this place up?" Sydney asked forcefully

"I dunno… I mean, it's not like we did anything all at once," Jay said. "When we came, there were zombies all over the place. There were places to hide, but we knew we couldn't hold them off forever. So we started leading them, and, well, you know how they follow each other… Once the first twenty or so were in, it snowballed, and we just sealed a few entrances at a time."

Sydney was already pulling out his hammer. "How man can you spare to clear this out?" he said to Austin.

"We don't," Austin said. "There isn't enough time to do it right, and really, there's no need to. We're going to let a thousand zombies in within a few hours anyway; a few more in here won't make a difference- unless it's actually to draw the others in. Still… Is there an open entrance?"

"Sort of," Jay said. "There was a staircase that went up to the overhead stuff, you know, the lights, the catwalks… Anyway, we tore down the stairs, but you can reach the door with a ladder."

The door was a crude affair, with no knob, but only a padlock and a latch that came undone at a slight push. Austin stepped through, onto a catwalk twenty-five feet above the stage. It was almost too narrow to plant one's feet side by side, and the guardrails were ridiculously slender. Three zombies were lumbering around on the stage, and one hissed as he made his way along. A companion grunted, and more noises came from beyond the stage. He gave it no attention; he didn't need to fight these zombies, or even to count them. His real concern was whether he could find… There, the faint gleam at the joining of two crossbeams, just about right for the lens of a hidden camera.

No doubt there were more, but he didn't need to count them either. He reached a T-intersection in the catwalk, and went left. Soon, he reached another door, this one built of solid metal. Of course it was locked, but a master key took care of that. It led to a short corridor, and that led to a stairway that went up, but not down. Austin paused to look at a fire extinguisher on the wall… or, rather, the perfect painted image of a fire extinguisher. That was as much confirmation as he needed: The Mechanic had been here.

The stairway ended at a door which opened onto the roof. A wind was blowing, but he heard the crunch of gravel to one side. "You aren't as quiet as I'd expect," he said, pointedly not looking at a figure in the corner of his eye, "for an _angel_."

There was no mechanical distortion or other obvious trickery in the voice that answered, but still he could not say for sure whether it belonged to man or woman: "Don't be surprised, I'm not one of them... really. You could call me… a subcontractor."

"How long have you been here?" Austin said. He did not expect an answer, but hoped to draw some telltale sound. No such luck.

"Your plan is good," said the voice. Austin still couldn't make out any hint of the speaker's identity, but he noticed an oddly clipped quality. "They think so. I wanted you to know that."

"I _already_ know. I'm surprised they didn't think of it themselves."

"I think they did."

"Why are you here?"

There was a crackle of gravel under shifting feet... a shrug, if Austin wasn't mistaken. "Observation. You could call it data collection."

"What's in it for you?"

There was another crackle of gravel, more like nervous shuffling, then a softer response: "The reward is up front. Then _you_ pay."

Austin nodded. "You know they won't come back for you."

"They told me they wouldn't."

"So what happens now?"

"No more orders." The clipped quality was more pronounced, yet somehow seemed more natural to the speaker. "Wait and see"

Austin nodded, and then turned his head. Of course, the figure was gone.


	18. Zero Hour

**Sorry for the very long wait. I didn't even remember how long it had been since I posted a chapter. I REALLY plan to ramp things up in the coming month or so.**

Week 50, Day 1

As the hour approached midnight, even the last-minute preparations were completed with time to spare. For a while, people talked or moved about, whiling away time and nervous energy, but this soon subsided and then stopped. By the time the hour itself arrived, an almost eerie silence hung over Miracle Mile Shops.

In Sur La Table, Jay sat down on a couch beside Pearl. She looked up and smiled. Then she showed surprise when he signed, _Hi. How are you?_

She gave an exaggerated shrug and signed, _Same. Nervous._

_Me too,_ Jay signed. Then: _Are you sorry you stayed?_

She met his gaze and signed, _No_.

There was a long pause. Pearl looked away, until Jay cleared his throat loudly enough for her to hear. Jay's eyes met hers, and he looked down, clearly flustered. He stared for a moment at his fidgeting hands. Then, abruptly, he signed, _I love you._

Pearl blushed, but did not look away. After a few moments, she spoke aloud: "I love you too."

Jay stared like a deer in the headlights. Pearl shifted, a little closer, and smiled. Slowly, haltingly, Jay leaned in…

Then a scream rang through the mall.

The north entrance of the mall was opened first. A score and more of zombies were nosing right outside the door, yet when the doors abruptly opened, their immediate reaction was to stare and sniff, as if suspicious. "They aren't goin' for it," a cockney-accented voice hissed in the darkness.

"Give it time," another voice murmured. Already, one zombie was venturing over the threshold. Soon enough, more were shuffling in, first by ones and twos, then in whole packs, and finally in a steady stream. In the shadows, two furtive figures fell back to an intersection.

The bulk of the zombies advanced down the loop of the main corridor, toward the sound of music and flashing lights of the Vee Theater. But inevitably, some turned aside, down the path to the central theater. But their progress was slow and clumsy, even for their kind. They slid and slipped on the distinctly shiny floor, twirling like comical, clumsy ballerinas. Again and again, they fell, and one did not get up, but lay in a pool of blood. Soon, the majority were in retreat.

"We have zees in the mall, Class 1 swarm," Austin announced over the radio. "The lower corridor is secure. Thanks to Jay for suggesting `slip 'n' slide' countermeasure."

Inside Sur La Table, Pearl looked up from a text feed at Jay. He blushed, and she took his hand. Then they both looked outside. Already, shots were ringing here and there as the odd zombie got too close to the defenders' cover. _They are coming,_ Jay signed unnecessarily. He flinched involuntarily as the crowd control barrier rattled.

Outside the north entrance, the zombies were swarming densely enough to choke their own influx into the mall. Then the south entrance opened. Zombies started coming through almost immediately, and within minutes a discrete streamlet was flowing from the main throng to the new, smaller door. Still more came around the corner from the side of the mall. Inside, the new influx of zombies remained tightly packed, growing more agitated and aggressive with continuous jostling. When they reached the junction of the main and lower corridors, it was not the odd peripheral zombies but a solid stream that turned aside. A volley of fully automatic gunfire rang out as the zombies approached a barricade of mixed traffic-control equipment, and by necessity, the shooting continued as more zombies followed the sound of battle and the scent of their own dead.

No amount of fire could have delayed the inevitable for long. Within moments, the barricade was reached. The defenders immediately began their retreat, and before the first of them reached the second line of barricades, a zombie was already pushing between two water barrels. More followed, finally spreading out. That was when the defenders resumed firing, picking off a whole wave of attackers. Even that offered only a momentary delay… until the music of an ice cream truck rang through the corridor.

Whole packs charged ahead of the main mass, in pursuit of a mid-sized scooter that was, indeed, the mobile stand of an ice cream vendor. The driver honked a horn, and a passenger tossed fistfuls of ice cream sandwiches at the zombies. The pursuers slowed as they began either slipping on or fighting each other for the half-melted, long-since-expired novelties, with further pileups as still others tripped over their fellows. As the scooter followed the curve toward the rear of the mall, a solid mass of zombies came the other way. The little vehicle made a tight U-turn only possible with its single front wheel, looped back toward the original pursuers, and then turned down a corridor toward a rear entrance. All the while, more sandwiches were flung to the zombies. The two streams of zombies met and merged into a single torrent pouring down the corridor. Then, suddenly, crown-control barriers on both sides of the hall went up, and hunters opened fire from the storefronts.

Austin led the advance back to the breached barricade, and directed others forward to drive the zombies back to the main corridor. Behind him, there was continuous gunfire but no call for retreat as more zombies attacked the other end of the lower corridor. And there was another sound, that made him whirl around in surprise- a cheer, led by the grinning black man with the incongruous accent.

He nodded in acknowledgment, then straightened himself into a serious pose. "We've started a great thing," he said. "But it's just a start. Resume your original posts, and reset the traps and barricades. We have more customers coming."

It was Krista's voice, broadcast from Circus Circus with enough power to reach for hundreds of miles, that was heard at noon by eager listeners all over Vegas. "Operation Hannibal is now entering its thirteenth hour. Austin Texas reports that the first phase has been implemented successfully, with no significant problems." She struggled to keep her voice calm and "neutral". "He commends all his volunteers for excellent performance and great bravery. He estimates that certainly not less than five hundred of the infected have been killed… and there have been _no_ human casualties." She gracefully signaled an assistant to cut off her mike before bursting into very grateful tears.

At the pinnacle of Stratosphere, Branson rubbed his chin. "Well. That wiseass is actually pulling it off…"

In an office in a concealed bunker somewhere in the mountains of central California, a burly arm picked up a phone. "General," said the theoretical Acting President of the United States, "we need to talk."

In the cupola of a camouflaged M60 tank, a grimy hand firmly twisted a radio dial to off.

"It's time to move," said Enid Oklahoma.


	19. The Secret

Week 50, Day 2

36 hours after the mall's main entrance was opened, the zombies were still coming, though by now in nothing more or less than steady streams through the two opened front entrances. While hundreds of zombies thronged the front of the mall, an equal number were spread out around the mall. These included many of the more intelligent and curious specimens, and therefore the ones with the best chances of finding their own way in.

One such zombie was a male, middle-aged and still wearing a torn and soiled business suit, who turned at a whirring sound and a noise like a stifled gargle. Nothing was there… including a larger male who had been right behind him. He looked up, with a look of confusion verging on suspicion, and grunted in surprise at the sight of the other zombie, hanging- literally- ten feet off the ground. As he stared up, he gave another cry of surprise at a sensation of something dropping around his own neck. As he felt the loop of cable at his throat, it suddenly tightened and jerked upward, hauling him up to join his companion in a quiet, reasonably sanitary demise.

"Musta been a middle-management type," Sydney said as he examined the latest trophy pulled up by a power winch. "Good thing we took care of 'im early. Mark my words, there's no trickier bastards than his kind."

"He can't be that tricky; all he did was stand there," said Jay.

"Yeah. That just goes to show, brains are a double-edged sword. If he'd been dumb as the rest, he'd'a just kept walkin'." He looked at a pile of dead zombies to one side. "Well, time to lighten the load a bit."

"This seems wrong," Jay said as they picked up the management zombie.

"These days, what doesn't?" Sydney mused. Then, with the toe of his boot, he flipped the switch of a wood chipper. On the asphalt below, the zombies looked up at a rain of manna that suddenly dropped from the sky.

The merchants of Circus Circus had complained endlessly about being made to sell their wares in the limited space of the hotel-casino's promenade. Now, those were the good old days. With the onslaught of the horde, priority for indoor floor space had been given to "camps" of refugees, and the main market place had been moved to an emptied rooftop pool. There, even the most successful merchants did not get a space larger than a card table, and most did not have anything better than a small parasol for shade. Shoppers were relatively few, but in the confined space they were so crowded together that it had been necessary to make and strictly enforce a rule that all shoppers had to go in one direction along the well-marked circuit of aisles, and none could linger too long in one place.

One thing had not changed: Krista was still officially guardian and master of the marketplace. Indeed, in many ways she was better off than before: Where once she had had to patrol the market on foot, now she only had to look down from an elevated life guard's chair with its own built-in awning. It pleased her to wear wrap-around sunglasses worthy of an action hero, and lest anyone take her sitting down as a sign of weakness (or wonder too much whether her eyes were closed behind those awesome shades), she kept her stockless Mossberg in full view in her lap. And so, she was able to spend these last few days resting her tired and swollen feet. She felt a stirring in her abdomen, and smiled. It had been some time since it had been pleasant to feel her growing boy move. But in the shaded, drowsy warmth, she was convinced, even her restless unborn brat was happy to do nothing but sit and quietly bake.

Her eyes snapped open at a familiar voice: "Hello, Mrs. Kansas." With pointed slowness, she looked down at Branson Missouri. "That is the name you go by these days, isn't it?"

She pointed to a line of people descending down the right side of the pool's steps. "The entrance to the market is there," she said, then she tossed down a printed flier. "Here's a map of the market, with the major sections marked. Traffic is one-way only. If you see something you want to go back for, you are going to have to exit on the other side of those steps and get back in line to reenter. And it's best if you make up your mind quickly."

"Well, honestly, I'm not here to buy for myself," Branson said, "and I already have subordinates taking care of purchases for my group. I just thought, it would be good to talk…"

"…Then you can go talk to someone else," Krista said. "I'm on duty."

"To be sure," Branson said pleasantly, "but that needn't keep us from having a little constructive conversation…"

"I don't want to talk, Branson," she said coldly. Branson only smiled, presenting the model of patience and concern. Before he could start into his eloquent protest at her most unreasonable hostility, she pumped the shotgun.

"Well," Branson said, still pointedly polite as he moved along. "Very well. Please send Mr. Texas my regards."

Krista looked after him disdainfully, then winced and touched her belly. The kid was sensitive to the tone of her voice, and now he was at it again. "All right, sorry for waking you," she murmured. "Now go back to sleep…" She sighed and leaned back. Soon enough, she felt at ease again, and even the kid seemed to be settling down. That was when another, even more familiar voice spoke her name… and not the one she had "revealed" to the man who became her husband. She almost bolted upright, and had to whip off her sunglasses to keep them from falling to the concrete. She gazed down, not quite staring, at her sister Abbs.

"There's something I need to tell you," Abbs said. "It's about something I told him. He knows."

For a moment, Krista's look could have been taken for nothing but confusion. Then her eyes followed her sister's shifting gaze, down to her swollen belly. Abbs gave a stern nod, then turned and almost ran away.

Krista swore, and then winced again. "Yeah, go ahead and judge," she muttered, "but you don't have to deal with it…"


	20. Diversions

Week 50, Day 3

Austin had come to the siege with a very special gun, taken from a cache of weapons from a black ops unit. The weapon was an American-180, a gun that fired the meek .22 rimfire cartridge, but did so at a rate of fire of up to 1200 rounds per minute from a magazine with a capacity of up to 375 rounds. Extensive modifications to this specimen had included an even larger magazine. As the sun rose on the third day of the onslaught, the gun finally clicked dry as he fired on a back charging the second line of barricades on the left side of the lower corridor. Jay stepped in and dispatched a wounded male. Then Pearl stepped up beside him, firing a large-caliber pistol with no heed of the terrific noise.

The pack had come, not through a breach in the first line of barricades, but from the breached front of a storefront adjoining the casino. Already, more zombies were pushing through. The volunteers at the first barricade turned to fire on the threat at their rear, and reinforcements were already coming from the other end of the corridor. It was enough to keep the zombies coming through the storefront from gathering into a swarm, but not to push them back and resecure the door. Meanwhile, the swarming zombies at the first barricades would only grow stronger. Austin gave the order to prepare for what he knew was inevitable: "Everyone, fall back to the second line!"

Within minutes, the zombies were pouring into the corridor from both ends, some coming directly from the entrances and others moving in from the main corridor. The attackers' very numbers did more to slow them down than the fire of the volunteers. "Don't worry!" Austin shouted. "We planned for this; it's just a little ahead of schedule!" Even as he spoke, he winced involuntarily at a crash from his right. The well-barred doors that directly connected the lower corridor to the casino were straining inward.

Fortunately, at almost that moment, another sound rang through the mall: the roar of engines, accompanied by the thumps of bodies striking metal. On the right side of the corridor, the zombies pressed even harder at the inner barricades, less in aggression than in sheer panic. Behind them, the Tremors Truck lumbered into view. Sydney fired a machine gun from the truck bed as the vehicle plowed through the edges of the swarm, veering off from the tight-packed throng at the intersection. The mini-Hummer golf cart and the little Isetta followed, further decimating the thinned edges of the swarm and cutting down zombies that ran after the truck. Then all three vehicles turned tail, drawing zombies after them. More gunfire could be heard around the corner, from more volunteers emerging from the side entrance.

"All right, all available guns forward!" Austin shouted. "Cut down anything past the first barricades, but no further!" It was doubtful whether anyone paid him any particular attention as the volunteers rushed to the barricades and beyond. Choruses of gunfire began to alternate with the grisly sounds of blades and bludgeons deployed in close combat. Meanwhile, the roar of the truck grew louder again, and then quieter, as the vehicles made another pass to bait the zombies further down the corridor. As for Austin himself, several volunteers made a point of escorting him back to an impromptu command center in the theater entrance.

"We're at the rear entrance fallback position," Sydney announced over the radio. "I got a dozen guys with me; the rest are dropping back to the side entrance."

"Good!" Austin said. "They can use the same ambushes we tried in the practice run on the zombies that follow them. Then they throw open the doors and drop back to you."

"Roighto, just like we practiced." After a moment of silence, Sydney added, "Texas… we lost a few."

"Same here," Austin said. "Out."

He rubbed his eyes wearily before looking up. He managed not to start when he found Pearl standing silently beside him. "What now?" she asked aloud.

He pointed back to the breach, belatedly remembering to maintain eye contact when he spoke: "We have to do something about that. We can't resecure it, and. by now there isn't much point… But we have to know what's going on on the other side."

Pearl nodded. "And the rest?"

Austin shrugged, matching the deaf woman's exaggerated body language. "When we open another entrance or two, things will get better here… at least for a while. After that, we can try out traps and ambushes. Thin them out, make sure there aren't too many of them gathering in one place… and really, that's all we can do."

Atop the Stratosphere tower, Branson stood beside Tal and Duke, watching the man known as Q climb aboard a ride called X-Scream. Duke was looking through a telescope on a tripod, while Tal talked to the chief- or, as it would probably be better to say, _at_ him. The chieftain seemed somehow distracted, or detached. His gaze kept drifting south, toward Circus Circus, and when he looked elsewhere his eyes invariably went to the thirteen-year-old girl at the controls of the ride. He was jarred when Tal loudly said, "Well?"

Branson belatedly realized he had been answering questions with vague affirmatives, and no idea what the questions were about. "Oh," he said, "I'm sure the weapon will be quite effective."

"Yeah," Tal said, "but what about the zombies? What do you think is up with them?"

He pointed to the street below. In the last 50 hours, the distribution and migratory patterns of Vegas's zombie population had been in flux. The most visible and unexpected result was that the concentrations of zombies on the northern Boulevard were growing thicker, evidently from mass migration down from the north.

Branson shrugged. "They'll do what they're gonna do," he said. "All we can do is look out for our bottom line… Are you ready, Mr. Q?"

Q was just finishing setting up the enormous artillery-based rifle on X-Scream's passenger car, which ran on a short track suspended over the edge of the tower. "Yeah, much as I'm gonna be," said Q. "I could use a few degrees of depression, though." Abbie threw a few switches, and the entire track tilted, enough to send the car rolling forward.

Duke spoke: "Well, I don't like it. That boy came up with a plan based on everything we know about the zeds' behavior, and the first thing that happens is that they do something we've never seen before. I say, that's always bad. I think we need to reconsider whether we should support…" His voice trailed off as Abbie looked sternly over her shoulder at him.

"All right!" Q shouted. "If you look to the south, there's a swarm-class concentration of zombies surrounding the Circus Circus KOA campground. Range… horizontal… approximately seventeen hundred meters. If you look through the telescope, very carefully, you should be able to see a bull, two meters in height, wearing a basketball jersey… Ah, and if you haven't done so already, now's the time to put on ear protection. It will be _absolutely_ essential."

Branson put on a pair of oversized earmuffs, and stepped forward to look through the telescope. Sure enough, there was an especially tall zombie… And then there was a noise like a clap of thunder, accompanied by a noticeable vibration through the platform, and with no appreciable delay, the tall zombie was suddenly without a head.

Then Branson raised his head, and saw the X-Scream car rolling back up the track.


	21. Balancing Act

As sunset approached on the third day of the 50th week of the pandemic, an emergency board meeting was being held in a penthouse suite of Circus Circus. The head of the meeting table went to a man who wasn't there: a one-handed leader of Treasure Island, known by his own insistence only as Bruce, represented on a large screen. "Well, gentlemen," he said, "what we've got is a matter of good news and bad news. The good news is that zombies _are_ headed Planet Hollywood, as planned. The bad news is that we're in their way."

A board member harrumphed. "`As planned'? We planned for a trap that would draw fifty thousand zombies away from the Boulevard over a matter of two to four weeks! There are more than that in front of our casino right now!"

"Ah, sir," said Chief Sahara, "Mr. Texas did predict that he could draw one hundred thousand zombies or more. Also, even before the present crisis, he repeatedly expressed… _concerns_ about our ability to contain pockets of the infected population in the north."

"Okay, so maybe we have more zombies comin' faster," Bruce said. "All that means is that the trap's working better than expected!"

The board member was obviously ready to go into a tirade, but the Chairman cut him off with a clearing of his throat. "With all due respect, Mr… ah, Bruce… But _that_ would mean a great deal. We planned to resupply the PH force by helicopter flights, on a very precise schedule, beginning tomorrow morning. If the force needs more supplies delivered sooner, then our schedule is already thrown off. If, in addition, we are continue to experience increased zombie attacks, then we also have to recalculate our own needs. If, on top of that, we are attacked by a biker faction, or a whole new threat materializes, we may have to reconsider whether we can even afford to use the helicopters for the task." His eyes met the gaze of Krista, who had been quietly admitted, and involuntarily winced.

Another board member sighed in exasperation. "We keep talking about what Texas will need. Well, why aren't we hearing from him? Why hasn't he set up a video feed?"

There was an immediate, pointed silence. Several board members gave each other awkward glances, while Krista only stared stiffly at nothing in particular. It was Bruce who said: "Austin Texas is on duty…"

The stillness of the Body Shop store was broken by the whine of an electric motor. The mini-Hummer drove through the darkness with no light except a small red-tinted flashlight carried by one of the passengers in the back seat. Even this did not illuminate the way, but only flitted back and forth for zombies. For Austin, the driver, there was light enough without them. He led the expedition over the protests of several of his subordinates, and he had chosen three companions to come with him. The muscle was in the back: the two Amazon sisters who had once been stars of Circus Circus's trapeze act. Jay rode in the front passenger seat as his guide.

The light revealed a pair of flashing eyes, and brought a snarl. Then there was a _**thunk**_ of a crossbow, and the thud of a falling body. The cart coasted to a halt, right in front of a rear entrance to the store. A shattered glass pane told as much as anyone needed to know. Jay hopped out of the shotgun seat and opened the glass doors to clear a path for the cart. "It could have been a lot worse," Austin mused as he restarted the cart.

The store did not open directly onto the casino floor, but the end of a corridor that ran beneath a set of escalators to reach the casino. It took several tight turns, and at one point several tries, to get through. The final stretch of the corridor brought them almost to the mouth of an aisle between tables and slots that led to a bar in the center of the casino floor.

The center was full of zombies.

"We go back, right?" said Jay.

Austin shook his head. "There's not enough room, and no time." Already, he was turning left, deeper into the casino. And already, a pack of zombies was charging after them.

A turn down another aisle brought them through a lesser pit. A crossbow bolt and several swings of a baseball bat were enough to get through the pack waiting there, just ahead of the swarm rushing in from the central pit. Austin sped up and beeped the horn.

"What are you doing?" Jay exclaimed.

"The more of them that follow us, the fewer there will be at the doors to the lower corridor," Austin said.

With stealth abandoned, one sister swapped her crossbow for an Uzi, and the other drew a 20-gauge Stakeout. Both weapons were emptied as the mini-Hummer raced along the far side of the casino floor, and the wild gunfire probably did far more to impair Austin's driving than it did to slow the pursuing zombies. He swerved just in time to avoid a protruding cashier's desk, and then turned too late down a passageway that led to bathrooms, a set of elevators and the rear entrance of a Guess store. He made the turn, barely, but struck the far wall of the passage in a glancing collision. The mini-Hummer went careening into the other wall, bounced back again and then struck a zombie emerging from the men's room. The turbocharged golf cart had been fitted with bumpers and roll gear, but it was still too light for a frontal collision with a man-sized creature at speed to end in anything but mutual destruction. Austin was buckled in, but the belt had no shoulder harness, and so his head slammed into the steering wheel as the mini-Hummer plowed to a halt, just short of the Guess entrance.

For a moment, his vision was clouded by flashing spots. Then he raised his head, to find the definitely decease zombie halfway through the windshield and one of the sisters slumped against the back of his seat. There was a snarl from behind, and he snapped his head around to see two more zombies emerging from the restroom. He snatched up his 12-gauge double, got the sister out of the way with a push that sent her sprawling to the floor, and fired both barrels single-handed over his shoulder. He felled one zombie, but the windshield shattered, and his wrist felt like it had. Before Austin could figure out whether the gun had even stayed in his pain-numbed hand, the other zombie thrust its hands straight through the spiderwebbed windshield. That was when the sister suddenly kicked straight up where she lay, with enough force to drive the zombie's head through the ceiling.

Three people piled out of the car. "Where's your sister?" Austin shouted to the woman. Even as he spoke, a zombie rushed in from the hallway. It was felled by a blast that certainly didn't come from his shotgun, and then the other sister stepped out from a recess next to the elevators.

While the sisters cut down zombies at the bottleneck created by the wrecked mini-Hummer, Jay fumbled with his keys, searching by trial and error for the right one to open the Guess entrance. When the Amazons fell back, Austin loaded a solid slug and simply blasted the lock. They hustled into the dim store, with zombies much too close behind. One sister gave a cry and heaved a mannequin at the swarm, and the other followed brandishing a clothes rack like a pole arm. At that moment, a piercing siren rang through the store. Austin screamed and clapped his hands to his ears, while zombies roared and reeled in pain. Jay and even the sisters winced at the deafening sound. Strobe lights began to flash, further disorienting humans and zombies alike. Then a zombie fell, at the feet of a figure who stood as motionless as one of the manikins. The petite woman in sunglasses stepped over the body, froze, and fired a small-caliber pistol into the forehead of a zombie that paused to give her a curious sniff.

By then, Jay and the sisters had ear plugs in, and Austin had regained his composure enough to follow suit. _Love you,_ Pearl signed, then she fired again. The sisters hustled Austin and Jay toward the volunteers gathering inside the store front. From the midst of them, Sydney stepped forward.

"You didn't say nothing about coming back without the Hummer!" he bellowed.

"Couldn't be helped!" Austin shouted. "Now get ready to fall back to the theatre!"

Sydney looked around, and then grinned like a baboon. "Whaddya mean? We got ourselves the trendiest store in town, and we're bloody well gonna give our guests a sale ta _die_ for!"


	22. Air supply

Week 50, Day 4

As the sun rose, a new swarm of zombies was forming around the side entrance of the mall, as hundreds of zombies jostled each other to get into a newly opened door. As expected, this was visibly drawing zombies away from the front entrances. It had an even more visible effect on the zombies that roamed around the mall's perimeter, thinning their numbers just enough for individual zombies to explore properly. Through the midst of these diffuse ranks moved an otherwise non-descript figure wearing a British flat cap.

The masses of zombies began to swirl as a new sound rose: the noise of approaching helicopter blades. Individuals, packs and whole swarms moved to and fro unpredictably, following the echoes of the rotors. All over the city, the scene was repeated, only elsewhere, the zombies moved in a definite direction: south, following the helicopter toward the Planet Hollywood complex.

A score of volunteers were waiting as the helicopter descended onto a particularly level and thoroughly tested patch of the roof. Austin stood at the front, with Pearl beside him. She used signs to convey his urgent shout to the crew: "Turn off your engines! You're agitating the zombies!" The pilot was clearly unhappy, but didn't hesitate to comply. The noise faded and then died out as the blades slowed to a halt. The volunteers rushed forward as the doors opened, but Austin almost stopped in his tracks as Krista stepped out.

Austin felt that he should be furious, but he couldn't deny that he was glad… until he saw the stern, subtly sad expression on his wife's face. Fortunately, the others made a point of paying no close attention as they both shuffled to one side.

"So…" Krista's voice trailed awkwardly, and she only rallied when she held out two pan-like American-180 magazines. "Q prepared these for you. There's 600 rounds each. He sent some other… stuff, too… You can look at it when you unpack." Even as she spoke, her eyes were downcast. Then Austin cupped her chin in his hands and guided her head up.

Tears welled up abruptly in her eyes. "There… There's something I need to tell you," she said. "An' I… I owe it to you in person… Face to face, you know?" Austin nodded, steadily meeting her gaze. She knew then that, as much as she had agonized over how painful this was going to be, the worst part would be that he already knew what she was going to say.

While the volunteers bustled about unloading bags, boxes and weapons, Pearl stood to one side. She alone watched as Austin took a step back, still holding Krista's head in his hands, but now with a stiff tension that suggested that he just might shift his grip to her throat. For a long moment, they only stared at each other in silence. Pearl stepped closer, discretely reaching for her shoulder holster. Then Austin pulled Krista to him, and held her as she sobbed into his chest.

Even the roaming zombies around the mall snarled and pressed against the nearest surface as the helicopter roared back to life. They continued to push blindly as the helicopter lifted off, and when the aircraft shot away, they abruptly fell back, as if suddenly released from a resisting force. Some actually followed the helicopter north, but most went back to milling, and still more were arriving from swarms that had followed the helicopter. Soon, they were once again swarming the open entrances. But more than before nosed along the walls, keen for any weakness, and here and there they found one. In one particular spot, a female zombie crawled under the locked gate of the loading dock between the seafood buffet and the main building. Two more followed, and still more soon followed them.

Most of the zombies merely milled about the pavement, jiggling the handles of locked doors, munching intermittently on dried rice spilled from several smashed cardboard boxes. Some wandered in to an open door of a storeroom full of more boxes, only to wander back out as soon as they found it went nowhere. But one stood in one spot gazing up. It was a male, wearing a British flat cap. The intrepid female who had been first under the gate mosied up behind him, and followed his gaze upward, to a retractable ladder, more than ten feet off the ground.

Then the legendary Andy Capp shifted his gaze to the open storeroom.

Austin was calm as he spoke to Sydney, notwithstanding the redness in his eyes. "Everything they just brought us," Sydney said succinctly, "won't replace what we used up on the first day."

Austin nodded. "Then we move the next delivery forward, to two days from now instead of three. In the meantime, we continue the shift we're already making: Less holding ground against swarms, more traps and ambushes. Less gunfire, more melee weapons…"

"…And more scratches and bites in close combat," Sydney added darkly.

"I know," Austin said. "Really, I do."

"There's more," Sydney said. "Things are getting hot in the back, and they're gonna get a lot worse before they get any better. The zees in here are starting to concentrate in the upper loop, and the ones outside are swarming at the rear. We already pulled almost half our men from the south rear entrance, just to cover the center. The rest are awaiting orders to throw the doors and fall back."

"Do it," Austin said without hesitation, "and try running a few more diversions to thin them out."

"Okay. That'll help," Sydney said. "But there's something else you gotta know... We've had a few roamers an' one pack come in the parking garage. We took 'em out with no trouble- no noise, no mess. But I don't have to tell you, if we get a swarm class group in the garage, we lose our exit strategy… unless we use it first. It won't work for all of us, or even most, but we can make sure some of us get through."

Austin shook his head. "No," he said. "We all knew when we came that we are in for all or nothing. There is no exit strategy, just one last card for anyone who lasts long enough to play it. The fact is, unless you count the word of a mystic friendly cannibal… there's no way to know if any of us are getting out alive."

Sydney nodded. "Okay," he said. "Just so you know, if it comes to it… there's not one of us who wouldn't give up a seat for you."

Three of the boxes, one stacked on another and a third beside them, provided the bare minimum of a stairway. The leader climbed up onto the highest box, and jumped. The lowest rung of the ladder was still well beyond his grasp, and after two more jumps, the box sagged beneath him, spilling a handful or so of rice out of a bottom corner. He lurched back down. Behind him, the damaged box slid sideways and fell to the ground, breaking open. He turned and gave a low growl at the object which had failed him. Then he grunted in surprise.

A female zombie walked up with another box in her arms. She set it in the place of the one that had failed. Already, another zombie was coming up behind her with another box. With a heave, the strong male put the box on top of the other two. The female circled around and set a box on top of the original first step, then pushed yet another box into place. With a grunt of satisfaction, the leader set a box on top of it, and then another beside it. Finally, he picked up a box and climbed up the improvised steps and across the level surface of the two-deep columns, to set his burden atop the highest of the boxes. He stepped back, and gave a positively pleased cry as the male helper pushed another box into place to complete the staircase. Meanwhile, the female stacked more boxes on the other side to shore up the new peak.

By now, there were a dozen zombies gathered in the dock. They drew back from the steps as the leader descended, and yielded more room as he took a few more paces back. He stretched his legs and examined the stairs they had made. Then he went into a run. He bounded up the boxes, even as they sagged beneath him. As he mounted the highest box, the one at the bottom sagged, buckled and then gave out completely. But even as the column toppled, the leader caught hold of the ladder. He cried out in alarm at a sudden drop, but it was only the ladder extending itself under his weight. The ladder stopped only two feet off the ground. The leader eagerly climbed up, while more zombies scrambled over fallen boxes and spilled foodstuffs to reach the ladder.


	23. Onslaught

The lights were bright inside the Guess store, and both ends, one inside the casino and the other opening onto the intersection of the main and lower corridors, were wide open. Zombies were pouring in from both directions, yet, for some reason, not many were coming out of the corridor entrance.

A smorgasbord of diversions awaited the zombies inside. Music (mostly country) blared, shows and movies played on TV screens, and mannequins in rhinestone-studded clothes twirled perpetually. Toward the center of the store, a video poker machine gave hand after hand with cheery animation and sounds, and a couple of wheel barrows offered a literal smorgasbord of unmentionable delicacies. But not every zombie was satisfied. Inevitably, some pulled away from the bulk of their fellows, exploring the edges. One such zombie, a male dressed in a suit, was making its way aimlessly along the walls. Then it paused, listening, and resumed moving, faster and more purposefully than before. It followed a sound, just audible over the other noises, which soon became audible as: _"Four… four… four..."_

The zombie paused again at the open door of a storeroom. It stepped inside, cautiously. A single light was on just around a corner. From the same direction came the sound: _"Four… four… four… four…" _The zombie shuffled closer. The light came from behind a half-lowered gate. After a moment's consideration, it leaned down and stuck its head inside.

That was when a rock hammer struck the base of its skull.

…And a female zombie moved faster and more purposefully toward a storeroom door, following the sound of a cockney-accented voice: "Five… five… five… five…"

The rear of the mall was a sea of chaos and carnage, inside and out. Zombies crowded both sides of the central rear entrance, and the barriers there might well have failed entirely if not for the resistance of the zombies' own bodies. Even invitingly open restaurants on either side of the entrance did not relieve the pressure.

Then the music started.

The accumulated mass of the zombies pivoted left, toward the sound and flashing lights of a fountain show in front of the Vee Theater. The fountains were not working quite as intended: Gushing water evidently did not drain back into the fountain's reservoir, but spilled out onto the floor. The zombies' feet splashed as they shuffled toward the show. They came with greater numbers and determination as the show approached its climax, wading into the fountain itself.

That was when a bank of overhead lamps dropped directly into the fountain.

"We musta tripped a circuit breaker somewhere," came the report over the radio. "Half the corridor just blacked out.… It definitely worked, though. We can't very well count the bodies in the dark, but there were at least a dozen in the fountain alone."

"All right," Austin said. "That's about as good as anyone could have expected. Continue with our contingency plans. Brief me on any new developments." With that, he shut off his radio and looked at the band of six volunteers gathered on an upper part of the roof.

"The shipment included a gift from Branson Missouri," he said. "Evidently, it tested well enough to impress Q. His own words are that it has `quite a kick'."

The Amazons and another woman were among the volunteers. Austin politely passed them over, finally settling on a huge man who looked like and might well have been a linebacker. "Griffin, you have the honor of test-firing the 6 cm High-Impulse Weapon System." With visible effort, Austin handed over a freakishly large yet strikingly Spartan weapon that looked like a compromise between a grenade launcher and a trench mortar.

"I thought Branson _said_ he didn't have any anti-tank weapons," one of the sisters said.

"Yes, that's what he said, but that's not what this is," Austin said. "The HIWS is designed for use against light to medium armor and fortifications, specifically in an urban environment. The big selling point is that it doesn't have a backblast like a missile launcher or a recoilless gun. Instead, the barrel and breach recoil within an outer tube, and redundant shock absorbers take most of the force before it can dislocate the user's shoulder. It won't destroy a modern main battle tank, but it won't set your pants on fire either. Griffin, are you ready to give it a try?"

Griffin had already opened the breach, which was well ahead of the quite bulky stock. "Branson sent us a dozen shells," Austin said as he loaded a round. "This one is a flechette canister." Griffin smiled and took aim at a swarm on the edge of the parking lot. Then one of the sisters shouted in alarm.

Austin turned to see a zombie less than ten yards away. The Amazons already had pistols out, and a single shot felled the zombie, but at least a dozen more followed behind it. At the sound of gunfire and the scent of death, the rest came on faster, and even as the volunteers matter-of-factly picked them off, still more came into view. Austin was just getting ready to add his gun to the fight, when he saw Griffin pivot. "Everyone down!" he shouted, and threw himself at an Amazon for emphasis. His attempt at a heroic tackle instead became a collision that left him sprawled on the rooftop while the puzzled Amazon lurched back more from reflex than imparted momentum. It was just enough to get them both out of a blast that completely disintegrated one of the nearer zombies, felled another, wounded a couple and left the rest completely unscathed. A split second later, Griffin joined Austin in the rooftop gravel, clutching his shoulder.

"Incursion on the roof!" Austin shouted into the radio. "Repeat, incursion on the roof!"

"The shock absorbers," Griffin gasped, "… don't quite perform as advertised!"

Austin held up a second shell. "Do you think you could do better with a little practice?"

Griffin fired the second shot prone, with the weapon's frame rested on the roof, and wiped out the better part of a large pack gathering at the base of the short stairway that provided access from the lower roof. Shots and shouts came from below as snipers and watchmen met the immediate threat. Austin pointed to the door to the theater stairwell. "Fall back to the stairs!" he shouted to his companions, then he spoke into the radio: "Everyone on the lower roof, fall back to center perimeter! We rally if we can, but we must hold the theater prominence!"

As the rest of the volunteers fell back, the zombies trying to ascend were met with fire from behind as well as above. Even so, Austin and his companions were hard-pressed. The Amazons stomped and kicked at zombies trying to pull themselves up directly, while the other woman cut down zombies coming up the stairway with an assault rifle. Austin himself fired both barrels of his 12-gauge when a zombie came out from behind the stairwell entrance. He hurriedly called to Griffin and the other men, who came just in time to cut down the rest of a pack that came out of the cover of the entrance. Austin hurriedly loaded the last available shell in the HIWS, and shouted for all to put on ear plugs. Griffin circled the stairwell, shouted, and fired immediately. The dull boom of the weapon was followed by the loud, reverberating blast of a concussion shell. Every zombie in sight stiffened, staggered, or even fell, and quite a few more went lurching into view. It bought enough time for the other two men to go around to cover a climbable gutter on the other side of the stairwell with their rifles. Then volunteers started climbing up from the lower roof, and still more emerged from the stairwell.

Fifteen minutes later, Austin gave his report on the channel to Circus Circus: "The incursion onto the rooftop was halted with no loss of human lives. A special commendation is in order for volunteer Griffin, who provided vital fire support in the course of performing a field test of the experimental High-Impulse Weapon System. There are still zombies in large numbers on the lower roof, but the center is secure. We have identified their means of access as a retractable ladder in a loading dock between the annex and the main building. This ladder, which leads to the roof of the annex, not the main building, was known to be raised and secure at the onset of the siege. It appears that a single zombie was able to reach it and pull it down, by means unknown and moot at this time. We are evaluating the feasibility of sending a team to raise or demolish the ladder."

He stopped talking, and there was a long moment of silence before the voice of Krista came over the air: "All duly noted… Texas. And it's my, my pleasure to inform you that the Circus Circus Board of Directors has approved sending an extra shipment the day after tomorrow. It's already been put together, exclusively from material freely offered by the people of Circus Circus. We're all pulling for you." Then she added, with audible tension, "The CEO requests immediate updates on any and all developments in the rooftop situation. He reminds you that this will be important in planning further shipments." From the anxiety in her voice, she might as well have added: If any…

Another, longer silence passed before Austin spoke again: "Tell the Board I or my subordinates will send reports on the half hour… And… I… thought about… what you came to tell me."

"We're off the record, Austin."

"All right… I… Look. Really, what is there to say? You're my wife. My one and only. Nothing else matters."

"Okay," Krista said. "Austin… I love you."

"I know," he said, and turned the radio off.


	24. Equalization

**Okay, so finally, after an "Exotroopers" novel, and about two-thirds of a grad school project, I am FINALLY back with another chapter. And okay, it's short. But it's something, and I'm willing to go out on a limb and say there's more to follow shortly...**

Week 50, Day 5

Austin fired yet another double tap from his submachine gun, and yet another zombie toppled off the edge of the annex roof into the loading dock. "If enough go like that," Jay said, "they might climb up here over their own dead."

"No," Austin said, "if there were that many dead ones in one place, the rest would just sit and eat them. Sydney! Report!"

The accented voice on the radio came over snarls and the thudding of swinging weapons: "We couldn't raise the ladder from the top, so we set a charge. That'll blow in a moment-!"

Even as Sydney spoke, there was a flash and a boom from the other side of the loading dock. At least half a dozen zombies were killed outright, and many more fell wounded or stunned. With the crowd thinned, Austin could see the air-conditioning unit Sydney and a companion were crouching behind. When the smoke cleared, the ladder was partially uprooted and badly dented, but already, another zombie was climbing up. "Do you have more explosives?" Austin asked.

"If I did, d'ya think I woulda held onto it?" Sydney answered irately.

"Abort, then," Austin said. "All sentries, sharpshooters, acquire and fire on all infected between the loading dock and roof center. But check your fire; there will be friendlies on the move!"

In a matter of seconds, a firestorm mowed down a swarm's worth of zombies. But as Sydney stood up, a short burst whanged off the air conditioner. "Check fire, check fire- hold fire!" Austin ordered. Sydney tried to beat back a pack of zombies converging on him with his rock hammer, but it was only moments before he made a break for it, plowing straight through a trio of cannibals. Then more gunfire poured in, wounding the deputy behind him, and while two zombies were also cut down, there could be no doubt that Sydney was the target. "Hold fire! Everyone stop firing! Who keeps firing?"

Even as Austin shouted orders in vain, a bullet suddenly struck a wall just behind his ear. He dropped to a crouch and followed a deduced angle toward the far end of the roof, until he glimpsed, in the midst of a modest crowd of zombies, a figure with a British flatcap. He pointed wordlessly, and Jay took aim with a rifle, until Griffin stepped in with the HIW. But before he could fire, Andy Capp dropped out of sight- right off the edge of the roof.

While all other eyes turned toward a black man who jogged straight for an oncoming swarm with only a hammer he swung with one hand while supporting a wounded man on one shoulder, Austin rushed across the roof. Recklessly, he descended to the lower level, cutting down a pack of zombies just to get a clear view over the edge. Then he saw just a glimpse of a figure that seemed to swim along the surface of a sea of zombies, and waving a flatcap in merry farewell.

"I regret to report," Austin said in opening his report, "that the attempt to secure the ladder which allowed the infected to reach the roof was neither successful, nor without loss. We are in agreement that no second attempt is to be made. The site is hazardous, and likely to grow more so. Furthermore, the ladder is not the only means to access the roof from the parking lot, and we have confirmed that several are already being used by the infected. The upside is that there is strong evidence that significant numbers of the infected have descended from the roof, which means they are already approaching the limits of sustainable concentration.

"Despite this setback- probably, in fact, in some part because of it- our overall strategic situation has improved. While the infected continue to enter the mall, they are now doing so at a steady rate which is well-distributed between the various available entry points, giving us the best possible chances of containment. This means, furthermore, that Operation Hannibal has achieved peak performance in its intended purpose of diverting the infected from other areas of the city. There is every reason for confidence that, in as little as three more days, we will have eliminated or diverted enough zombies to fulfill even the most cautious estimates of conditions for a breakout and general counteroffensive from all inhabited casinos to achieve success..."

Branson turned off the radio. "Well, our boy's certainly proud of himself," he said. "Now, what say we go find out what's really going on?"

On the edge of the open platform at the base of the spire of Stratosphere, an obviously military instrument had been set up on a tripod. The observation post was manned by Duke, chief of Branson's ex-military lieutenants, and a young stargazer-turned-citygazer known as Nogales. "Well, Major," Branson said, "we provided you with an assistant reputed to have at least basic experience with telescopes and extensive familiarity with the city. Has he been as helpful as you hoped?"

"Much more so," Duke said, making Nogales smile. "He was able to tell and show me more about the city than people who have spent most of their lives here. Furthermore, he has proven himself an excellent learner. He has already gone through full instruction on this instrument, and with a week or so more to practice, I would wager he could operate it better than I can."

Tal smiled in turn, but Branson only gave an impatient nod. "Very good... Now what did you see?"

It was Nogales who answered: "Well... Mr. Missouri... if you look at this screen here, you will see something very- interesting."

Branson bent down. The instrument was pointed at an area of the city a mile or so east of Planet Hollywood. The lighting grid was out, but infrared imaging showed the glow of residual solar heat radiating from concrete and asphalt, and the bright sparks of body heat from roaming zombies. As the warlord watched, a small pack three merged with a group of at least twenty... all moving directly away from Planet Hollywood.

"Most are still heading into the trap, of course," Duke said, "and a certain amount of movement in the other direction is to be expected as a reaction to crowding. But what we have here is a sizable group, moving in a specific direction, and actually growing in size. We've been seeing the same thing all day, though this group is the biggest so far, and they have all followed a similar path. The only explanation is that they are going after something, probably a grouping of prey."

Branson smiled. "It figures. We have newcomers in town, and there must be quite a few, but so far, they've been careful and discrete enough to go unnoticed by everyone but the zombies. Better than I would have expected... from Enid Oklahoma."


	25. Breaking Point

Week 50, Day 6

The inside of the pizza restaurant was just dark enough for the limited patches of light to be to bright. Thus, the pack moved as slowly and cautiously as could be expected from zombies in hot pursuit of armed men who moments before had been shooting at them. A surprised cry made it clear that they were too close for human comfort, and the zombies came faster. Even so, a handful paused to sample a pizza set out on the table.

Then, just at the edge of one of those patches of light, there was a brief glint off a well-used rock hammer.

"We been able to cover a withdrawal from the Vee Theater," Sydney reported in person. "If our tallies are right, I just made kill 11,003."

"Good work," Austin said.

"We also took casualty 31," Sydney added.

"All right," Austin said.

"With all due respect..." Sydney took a deep breath, and then swore loudly. "Nothing's all right, _sir!_ We have _lost _the rear of the mall, _sir_. All we have left is the rear entrance, and we can't hold it."

"We can get you more ammunition in a few hours," Austin said.

"The bloody ammunition doesn't bloody matter, _sir,_" Sydney replied. "There's never going to be enough ammunition. Period. But that's just the parting flip-off from the Universe. Even if we _had_ enough ammunition, we don't have enough food. Or medicine... and I'm sure you've thought about what one good virus could do to us in here. Then, even if we had the food, we wouldn't have the men. There, the numbers speak for themselves. We started with fewer than 300, and we have lost more that 30. And even with ten thousand zombies dead, there are still ten times as many left, and we still have more coming."

Austin gave the veteran a firm, not quite solemn gaze. "How about we turn this around? You were here before I was. If someone had said _then_ that it was possible to kill more than ten thousand zombies, at the cost of thirty men... would anybody have called it a bad trade?"

Sydney swallowed. "We would have said it would be a bloody miracle."

"All right. Now let's think about those zombies. We have one hundred thousand zombies that are here, after 226 of us, when they could be out there, where there are a hundred thousand people. And then there are eleven thousand zombies that are going... nowhere. So, if we can keep fighting as well as we have so far, and every single one of us is wiped out, then there will be eighty-eight thousand zombies going nowhere. Then what would you say to that?"

Sydney gave a subtle smile. "I suppose I'd have to say... let's make it an even hundred grand." Then the smile became a grin. "And I think I just remembered, why the * I'm calling you `sir'."

Every eye in the city looked up at the helicopter that rose from Circus Circus and headed south toward the Planet Hollywood casino. None watched more attentively than Krista Kansas, who watched through binoculars from her lifeguard chair, and Branson Missouri, who tracked it from the observation post in the citadel of Stratosphere.

The helicopter flew right past the mall, drawing away a few swarms worth of zombies. Then it circled, still keeping its distance, continuing to stir up the horde. After two circles, it moved in, not quite directly over the roof, and from a door in the side a machine gun opened fire, cutting down several of the larger groups on the roof. The helicopter made another, wider circle, once again drawing away zombies, before finally making a graceful turn. Cheers erupted from the PH roof, and indeed from watchers everywhere. Even Austin ventured a smile... and even as he smiled, he saw a distant flash and puff of smoke, even before a streak like a comet rose from the earth, straight for the helicopter. "SAM!" he shouted. Already, the helicopter was taking evasive action, and there was even a desperate volley of machine gun fire aimed at the incoming missile. Then the missile detonated, and a cloud of smoke and flame seemed either to obscure or envelope the helicopter.

There were no cries of fear, anger or surprise, only stunned, staring silence for a fraction of a second that seemed like hours. Then the helicopter emerged from the smoke, and some cheered. But the helicopter itself was pouring out more smoke, and rapidly losing altitude. Still, the craft accelerated toward its destination, the extra thrust being the only thing that might keep it from crashing first. Volunteers scattered as the helicopter miraculously cleared the roof edge, far too narrowly to inspire any faith in a similar miracle when the craft reached the upper roof a fraction of a second later. Yet, indeed, the pilot managed to nose up just enough for the skids touch down fully on the roof. But then the helicopter bounced and bucked, smashing its tail and then slamming down on crumpling landing gear. Only Austin stood his ground as the craft skidded to a halt.

The pilot threw open the door of the cockpit, shouting for help, and after a moment of mixed confusion and hesitation, the volunteers rushed in, the majority unloading the cargo while the remainder either fought off curious zombies or tried semi-effectually to put out the fire in the helicopter's engines. But Austin only stood, blinking as the drooping, disengaged blades of the main rotor continued to swash lazily through the air mere inches from his eyes.

As night descended, gunfire rang through the rear of the mall, including a blast from the HIWS, covering a retreat from the last posts at the central rear entrance to Sur La Table. Austin's voice was flat as he made his report: "I regret to report that the helicopter is completely irreparable. However, there is good reason to believe that many components can be salvaged. Of the four crew of the helicopter, three survived, including pilot Detroit Michigan, who acted with great skill and heroism in landing the heavily damaged craft, containing an engine fire in the downed craft and overseeing the successful recovery of the vast majority of the cargo.

"At present, we estimate that there are 25 thousand of the infected already inside the mall and casino, 50 thousand immediately outside the structure, and anywhere between 25 and 50 thousand gathered as secondary swarms in the surrounding area. We are therefore, literally, under attack by half of all the zombies in Vegas. Despite the setbacks we have suffered, we are confident that we can maintain our positions and continue to eliminate the infected for three more days without resupply."

Krista's voice came in reply, slightly quavering. "Thank you... for the report," she said. "Thank you for the report. But I'm afraid... things just changed, and not just because of the helicopter." She took a deep breath and continued, "One hour ago, the Fremont Street Alliance was attacked by an M60 tank."


	26. Lost Chance

Week 51, Day 1

The board of Circus Circus gazed sternly at the three men who entered their meeting room: Branson Missouri, his lieutenant Duke, and a very disheveled man in a uniform used by the self-defense force fielded by the Four Queens, Fremont, Gold Nugget and Binion's hotel-casinos. "My men have spent the last 36 hours conducting relief and search-and-rescue operations on Fremont Street," Branson said. "This man came forward of his own accord. I believe you should hear what he has to say."

"Call me Sands," the man said hoarsely. "I came out of New Mexico. I was in the National Guard... as a recruiter. I was at Binion's when the outbreak started. I made 200 kills as a deputy, got into the Combined Defense Force at the start, and made my way up to major. When command got word that the warlords had tanks, somebody decided to put me in charge of a brand-new anti-tank detail.

"You know the east-west through street is enclosed for the Fremont Street Experience. Our plan was to blow the roof down, if it came to that, and block or bury anybody who came that way. We figured there wasn't much risk from the south, either. So we set up our line between Binion's and Fremont. We had a barricade of vehicles, not cars but trucks, buses and Rvs..."

"Which an M60 can tear in half the long way," Duke said.

"We knew it couldn't hold them!" said Sands. "But it wasn't just that. We had demolition charges mixed in, and some decoys to keep them guessing. Then we had home-brewed weapons, straight outta World War 2, sticky bombs, molotovs, hand-thrown bombs..."

"And you had a missile," Branson said curtly.

The eyes of the board widened, and Sands lowered his eyes. "Yeah," he said, then looked up defiantly. "It was a one in a million find! I led the patrol that found it. There was an overturned humvee, and the hardware was in the back. It wasn't state-of-the-art, but it was standard issue for frontline troops. God knows what they thought they were going to do with it against a thousand zombies... Anyway, we found one launcher, never fired, one round, and even the manual... well, most of the manual."

"And you just held onto it," said Branson.

Sands looked to the board. "You all know how it was then! Individual patrols were covering a lot more ground than we did later, and we ran into a lot more surprises. So, if we ran across stuff we could use, it was finders keepers, and nobody had a problem with it! Besides, who else _wanted_ an anti-tank weapon? So we kept it, and tried to figure out how to use it, just for fun and just in case. We stowed the shell as soon as we got back to base, but we actually used the launcher in the field: It had a nice sight with night vision as a bonus. We picked up quite a few zombies we might have missed otherwise, and once we used the infrared for a search and rescue operation.

"The whole time, me and five of my guys read that manual like it was the last copy of Playboy. But there were a lot of things we could never figure out. Like, there was this `top attack' setting that was supposed to better against tanks, but we were supposed to _not_ aim directly at the target. We never knew for sure how that was supposed to work, and I finally decided if it came to that, we would just do without it. Then, the sight had been showing a low battery for a while, and we had to lay off practicing to conserve power. Then, of course, we still didn't know if that missile was still good, if it ever had been. Still, we did everything we could." He glared at Duke. "Just tell me, do you think anybody could have done better?"

"There were men in uniform who did worse," Duke said evenly.

"So, the day finally comes, when we actually get an actual tank incoming. That bastard, Whatsit Oklahoma, he was standing up in the turret like it was a parade. We could have potted him then and there, and I know we should of, but there was another vehicle right behind him, tracked but not a tank, and it was all business. So, I helped my two best students set up the launcher, and then I came out. I got ahead of our line, right in the path of the tank, and ordered him to stop or be fired upon. He did. He actually smiled.

"He said he was the rightful leader of the Syndicate, and he said he had come to Vegas after the single greatest threat to our survival- him." He jerked his thumb at Branson. "He said that _his_ plan is to cut us off from the Strip and leave us for zombie bait. But he would offer us protection. All we had to do was provide housing and food to a hundred of his men... and two women for every one of them."

"Did he say the alternative?" mused Branson.

"Did he have to?" said Sands. "I told him he had two choices: He could get out and surrender, or he would be fired upon with a weapon powerful enough to completely destroy his tank. He said if his tank blew up, the explosion would kill me too. I told him I didn't care, then he laughed and said he didn't either. That was when somebody on the roof launched the missile."

Sands shook his head. "We both knew it was a gamble, pure and simple, and all or nothing... My guy was supposed to wait for a signal, but he took the shot. And it was a hit, dammit!" He slammed his fist on the table. "I saw the missile exhaust, I saw it hit, just ahead of the driver's hatch, I saw a little smoke still coming out after. Goddamn, I swear, Enid looked like he just dropped a brick for his number 2! But... it never went off."

"Based on your description," Duke said, not unkindly, "the missile was fired from less than minimum arming range- probably a matter of 5 meters or less. If it had hit a different part of the tank, it might have detonated."

"Tell them," Branson said coldly, "what happened after that."

"Enid dropped out of sight and shut the hatch," said Sands. "Then both vehicles turned around, and they drove away." He put his head in his hands. "That was when a shell hit the Four Queens. The first one."

"In total," Branson said, "we believe Enid expended twelve 15.5cm shells in three salvos. Bear in mind, furthermore, that the vehicle which fired the shells fired at a range undoubtedly in excess of two miles, and escaped direct observation by the forces of any casino. At least five shells struck Four Queens, two to three hit Binion's, one hit the Gold Nugget, and one seriously damaged the vault structure. It's probable that the coordinates of Four Queens were laid in in advance, and that it was the intended target for all shells fired. At present, 3,200 are confirmed dead. Many more remain unaccounted for."

He folded his hands on the table. "This, gentlemen, is what happens when a few people decide to try their `best', on their own, against a reasonably intelligent and quite psychotic man who happens to have three modern armored fighting vehicles! Any questions?"

After a rhetorical pause, he continued, "Here is how we are going to do things _now_. All combined operations will be placed under a single commander with unilateral authority to authorize or initiate any and all actions. That would, of course, would be me. My authority will include any and all actions against the forces commanded by Enid Oklahoma, and also the ongoing situation at Planet Hollywood."

The chairman held up a hand. "Excuse me, but you are making a very extraordinary request, and asking us to relinquish much of our own authority..."

"It seems to me that you don't have a great deal of authority, or you would have known that your allies thought they had a perfect plan to stop Enid," Branson said. "In any event, I am not making a request... I am making a demand."

"Or what?" The sultry voice came from the corner. Out stepped Krista Kansas.

"Point of order," Branson said. "What... if anything... is this person _doing_ here?"

"You don't make a demand without an `or else'," Krista said. "So... or what?"

Branson looked to the board, smiling. "Do you recognize her authority to speak?"

"She has attended many of our meetings, with her husband," the chairman said. "She has continued to attend in his absence, and her right to speak has never been questioned. Our decisions, after all, directly affect her husband... and family."

Branson frowned. "Surely many of you are married, but I don't see your wives here," he said. "Or what about the wives and companions of the volunteers with Austin Texas? Surely they have an equal right to attend."

"How about you answer the question?" Krista said.

"Point of order," Branson said. "If nobody can give me a good reason why this woman has standing to address me, then I _insist_ that she either be silent, or be removed."

Krista strode up to the table, pushing between two board members. "Or... what?"

An hour later, the meeting adjourned. Branson smiled at a coldly furious Krista, waiting at the door. "Well, I thought you should be the first to know," he said, "that I am the new commander of combined operations. My first order is that the Planet Hollywood force is to be resupplied immediately." He started to walk away, then turned back and said, "Ah, yes... evidently, you are now a board member."


	27. Air Support

**Once again, this took longer than I wanted, and it's still pretty much a "setup" chapter. In the process, though, I managed to do enough outlining that I should be able to speed things up in the immediate future.**

Week 51, Day 2

This time it was the early hours of the morning when the sound of helicopter blades rang through the city. And this time, it was clear from casual listening that there were two helicopters.

Branson watched from an upper floor of Circus Circus, in the company of Tal, Duke and the Circus Circus board, including Krista. "Are we to understand," said the chairman, "that you do not believe Enid will attempt to shoot down another helicopter?"

"I am _certain_ he won't," Branson said confidently.

"Then do you believe he had only one missile?"

It was Krista who answered: "Of course not. If he had only one missile, he would have saved it in case he really needed it. Isn't that right?"

Branson chuckled. "You know, Mrs. Kansas, you really should have gone into business."

"So," Krista said, "how many missiles does he have?"

"I honestly don't know," Branson said. "I had our anti-vehicle weapons stored at three locations. When Enid and I parted ways, his men raided two and set off a few rounds when they left. Needless to say, there was no way to tally what they took when what they didn't was residue at the bottom of a crater."

"So... what exactly are you sending?" Krista asked, entirely rhetoricallly. Branson smiled.

Gunfire in the Miracle Mile mall was sporadic, and concentrated in the rear. More often to be heard were blows from blunt instruments. A salvo of machine gun fire signaled the tail end of the final retreat from the rear shops and restaurants into Sur La Table, and kill ca. 21,000 for the defenders, who now numbered 191. "That's it," Austin said, carefully looking into Pearl's eyes. "Our double encirclement is now just encircled."

"We can take it back," Pearl said.

Austin smiled even as he shook his head. "No we can't... and we probably shouldn't. I knew it would end up like this. I just... hoped. I guess it's been spreading around. But... enough of my problems. What did you want to talk to me about?"

"Jay and I want to get married," Pearl said.

Austin smiled again, and there was more than a hint of the face he had shown when he pitched himself as the best hope of Vegas. "If you can find anyone here who can do it, go ahead."

"We want you to do it."

"I don't think I do weddings. But I'll check around." Overhead, they heard the sound of a descending helicopter. "Well, let's go see what they brought for us."

The helicopter that flew over the roof was obviously Branson's, a military bird straight out of the Vietnam War. It did two passes, spraying the horde with short hiccups of machine gun fire, and hovered just long enough for several big crates to be dropped unceremoniously to the roof. Volunteers with large dollies hustled to secure the boxes, while the rest looked up still more expectantly as the second, civilian helicopter descended for landing. But when the door slid open, looks of hope turned to surprise, confusion and outright suspicion.

Austin strode forward to meet the black-clad man who stepped out of the helicopter. "What's the meaning of this?" he said, as five more people climbed out of the helicopter. "I never requested reinforcements!"

The man sternly met his gaze. "You can call me Cold," he said. "I used to do stuff. This is my squad. We are not here because of your requests, and we are not your reinforcements. Branson sent us to advise and supervise the orderly dismantling of your operations." With that, the newcomer stepped around Austin, raised a carbine identical to Austin's weapon, and put two bullets in the eye of a zombie 30 meters away.

Twenty minutes later, the helicopter flew away with a handful of Austin's wounded. He stood in his office command center, staring at Cold over a sprawling mass of notes, maps and diagrams. "I would like to understand this better," he said. "We have successfully wiped out almost 10% of the zombies in Vegas, and drawn at least 40% away from other areas. My original proposal was for the other casinos to use the opportunity to mount an offensive which would culminate with encircling and wiping out the infected in and around the mall. All we needed in the meantime was a steady supply of food and ammunition. What's changed?"

"I evaluated your plan _before_ I came," said Cold. "It was a good plan. Under the right conditions, it could have worked. But it won't work here: Too many infected and too many friendlies, spread over _far_ too much area. An encirclement of the swarm simply isn't feasible. Sure, we could still come in with guns blazing and wipe out tens of thousands in a matter of hours. But then what? If the bulk of the horde stays put, you're still trapped. If they don't, then at best they disperse, and at worst, they move _en masse_ into other areas."

After a long pause, Austin said: "All right. Then what would you do?"

"Branson has plans in motion for a limited relief expedition in the next 48 hours," Cold said. "It will be sufficient to cover a breakout by a part of your force, which is already a contingency in your original plans."

"What about the rest?"Austin said, not really a question.

"Some can be airlifted out," Cold answered. "Small groups could use walkways, maintenance passages and other routes to escape on foot. Up to half your remaining force could feasibly be evacuated without undermining the ability of the remainder to continue to fight- and continue to draw- the horde... Of course, the evacuees can be expected to suffer significant losses of their own."

"Of course. What then?"

"Branson possesses some weapons he doesn't let most of his own people know about," Cold said, more sternly than before. "We brought a few. Then there's something else: It was a prototype for a new class of fuel-air munitions, so new the military hadn't decided on a delivery system for it. They settled for a 20 cm self-propelled howitzer that was retired at the end of the Cold War. Branson found the gun and three shells. He fired one shell three weeks ago at a swarm of around ten thousand in the mountains south of Vegas... you may have heard it.

"The shell dispersed a payload of about sixty kilos of fine powder in an elliptical cloud clearly intended in the design. Ignition generated a primary incendiary blast, again elliptical, with axes of about 30 by 40 meters. It's possible that the lateral spread of the blast was somewhat limited by the mountain environment. Most of the infected in this area were entirely incinerated, and unsurvivable burns occurred up to 100 meters from detonation, though this was largely moot due to additional trauma from the blast's pressure effects We found evidence of fatal or permanently incapacitating injuries of this variety, mainly massive inner ear damage, at ranges in excess of 1000 meters from the primary detonation. A search of an area of more than twenty square kilometers found five thousand deceased, with evidence of many more incinerated or buried, and fewer than five hundred living infected.

"Based on this test, Branson and his advisers- including myself- are wholly satisfied that this weapon is the best and only effective means to eradicate the horde. We project optimum results from the detonation of one shell about 500 m from the rear of the casino complex, followed- perhaps after a significant delay for survivors to escape- by another directly in front of the main casino entrance. We anticipate infected fatalities of 30 percent for the outlying swarms, up to 50, 75 in areas immediately adjacent to the casino complex and buildings, and literally incalculable effects within the mall-casino structure itself. A large minority predict absolutely total fatalities from heat-pressure effects alone. Most are allowing for at least 1 percent survival after the initial blast, but expect most or all the remainder to be killed by subsequent structural collapse. I and a few others believe that within the mall interior, up to 5 percent could survive."

"All right," Austin said. "Then show us how to be in the 5 percent."

As noon approached, the sound of gunfire was rising again, including the stutter of short bursts from the high-capacity carbines. Austin was acting as witness to the wedding ceremony of Jay Two-Twenty-Three and Pearl Bee. Sydney presided, on the basis that he was evidently initiated in the cult of an Australian Aboriginal tribe that had been effectively extinct _before_ the zombie apocalypse. "My people never really believed in religion," he said by way of a sermon. "We had faith, in the spirits of our ancestors and our totem animals, and the gods of earth and sky, and the Great God over them all. But we never got around to building houses to put God in, or choosing special people to serve God for us, or setting special Days to worship God so we didn't have to worry about it the rest of the time. So, it was always up to all of us to practice our faith as best we could, everywhere and all the time.

"What I'm getting to is, I don't expect anybody to stand here while I perform a ceremony in the name of gods you've never heard of. But I can call it like I see it. Whatever Powers there are in this universe have brought you two together and kept you alive for the last eleven months, and I'm sure by any justice in this world, you belong together till death do you part. So by the power vested in me by my people and my country, I recognize you as man and wife, and if anyone who has a problem with that, you can take it to Parliament!"

The few bystanders chuckled. Jay looked hesitantly at Pearl. She threw her arms around his neck and drew him in for the kiss. "Okay, that will do," Austin said. "The two of you can have the afternoon off."

The couple hustled out, and Sydney stepped aside to clean his hammer. "For those of you who are here," I have other news," he said. "Operation Hannibal will be entering a new phase, somewhat... differently from our original plans. Rather than awaiting relief, we will stage an incremental evacuation, beginning tomorrow, with support from the casinos and the Syndicate. I have chosen Jay and Pearl to take part in the first phase, a breakout using the shuttles already prepared in the garage. We are planning additional breakouts, as well as air lifts, through the remainder of the week, leaving a core force which will remain for the foreseeable future.

"I will be leading it."


	28. Fleas, Bees and Manhole Covers

**So, I finally manged to get a couple chapters done in the kind of time frame I think I need to make real progress with this. We'll see if I can keep it up. This chapter has gratuitous zombie killing and weapons info, and incorporates research and one invented term I originally did for my "Walking Dead"/ "Exotroopers" mythos. For anyone who_ really _wants to learn more about the subject covered here, I recommend . **

Jay emerged from the shower, wrapped in a towel. Pearl waited for him in a bathrobe; she did not turn, but watched him in the mirror. With the sound-proofing Austin had put in place around the theater's changing rooms, the sounds of battle outside were muted, but the sound of others in the hall and neighboring rooms was not, and nothing could more than marginally mitigate the smell of the living and dead infected. "I'm glad we're doing this," Jay said. "I mean, waiting. It's wonderful being together like this, hell, it's great just to get cleaned up... But I want a better time and place for a honeymoon than this."

"We'll have one," Pearl said, signing in the mirror as she spoke. She lightly touched her hearing aid, and then reached for the belt of her robe. "I have something to show you."

Krista found Branson in the Circus Circus RV park, lounging at a picnic table under the fold-out awning of his trailer. "Hello, Mr. Missouri," she said. "What's this I hear about a relief expedition?"

"It's in progress as we speak," Branson answered coolly.

"Really. I thought you would lead it yourself. You being the great leader and all."

"I don't have to be in the field to be in command," Branson said. He pointed to a propped-up tablet computer, bulky and outdated enough to make a promising bludgeon. "In fact, why don't I show you what's happening?"

From a distance, it looked as if a ticker tape parade had broken out on Flamingo Road. Ribbons of a vaguely earthy shade of pink littered the street, and more were drifting down. There was a series of dull booms, and three lazily arcing projectiles burst one after the other. Each one released two dozen cylindrical pellets, not much bigger than shotgun shells. As the pellets fell, their spinning unfurled two little fins, made of a slightly translucent, pink plastic just rigid enough to hold an "S" shape.

By ones and twos and then whole packs, the zombies came to investigate, attracted by the colorful plastic. An especially bold and curious male bent over to chew on a pellet. There was a pop like an especially energetic firecracker, and heads turned as the hapless bull fell without his. A female zombie, somewhat more cautious, picked up a ribbon, and stared in mute surprise when the ribbon and its hand disappeared with a sudden "pop". One of a group shuffling toward the fallen bull stepped on a ribbon, and dropped ponderously to the asphalt, keening shrilly as it clutched what was left of its right foot. The rest of the group turned to gather around the fallen, and its cries became a continuous screeching. More zombies wandered in, drawn by the sounds and scents, and more muffled explosions rang through the street. The slain bull was quickly engulfed by a group of a dozen, and the maimed female drew back in increasing haste from a ragged line of sniffing peers.

Meanwhile, there was another succession of booms, somewhat closer. The sound of bursting shells was muted by altitude, however, and the better part of a minute dragged on with no evident effect. Then something like a small soup can drifted into view, held aloft by a parachute. It seemed to shift course, and its descent unquestionably accelerated, on a path directly toward the group gathered at the corpse of the bull.

"The documents we found designated the vehicle a modified M125 mortar carrier," Branson said. "Clearly, however, it was an entirely new animal. The main weapon is a breach-loading 81 mm mortar, evidently a prototype based on earlier French and Russian designs. It was designed to fire rounds for existing muzzle-loaders of the same caliber, and even be loaded from the muzzle, but the primary feed is a three-round magazine with the option of rapid firing. There are strong indications that it was also intended as a test bed for new varieties of ammunition, specifically `cluster' type shells. We found shells for three types of submunitions, which already had informal designations."

He showed her a picture of one of the pink shells. "This is `Flea' designated `area denial munition'. It's a very controversial line of development, an air-dispersed anti-personnel mine designed expressly to wound. Its size and effect is fully comparable to a 2cm explosive shell, but still not good for much more than a flesh wound. The pink was evidently chosen for potential mass production model, we can only guess why. Possibly, it was intended as camouflage in a desert environment. It's also possible that the designers wanted the munitions _easy_ to see, so hostile forces would more readily avoid areas where they were deployed. Then again, there are stories about the time the Soviets tried something like this in Afghanistan. Supposedly, Afghan children started picking them up as toys...

"Then there's the Bee. It's about 4cm, with a chute and limited self-guidance, and a `payload' charge designed for both anti-personnel and anti-armor effect. It's fairly standard for submunitions of this type, except that where previous examples usually featured a central `anti-tank' shaped charge, this one produces an explosively-formed penetrator. Depending on settings made before launch, this can produce either a single projectile, effective against light armor, or several, effective against multiple personnel. There's also a model with a secondary charge for an air burst."

"You said you had three," Krista said. "What's the other one?"

"Well, that one was a `spigot' round, meaning that its caliber is larger than the mortar itself. It had several names. My personal favorite is... `manhole cover'.

"Why would they call a weapon a manhole cover? That doesn't even sound like a weapon..."

"If you see it, you will understand..."

Whole packs lay dead or dying from the rain of the Bees. The remnants of a pack advanced growling toward a cylinder that rested upright in the midst of the carnage. There was yet another sudden pop, and the cylinder flew into the air, tumbling as it dropped back down. It detonated at a height of four feet, and the blast from its core tore the nearest zombie in half.

Even as the packs were decimated, swarms coalesced from the zombies that gathered to feast on their own dead. A group of more than a hundred moved openly in the street, giving no heed to the Fleas and absorbing the blasts of the Bees. When another boom sounded, the swarm wheeled ponderously about to march toward their tormentors. Many looked up as a parachute sailed over their heads, looking like a drifting jellyfish. Suspended from the chute was a disk more than six inches wide. The disk drew ahead of the swarm, steadily dropping. The disk tilted within a gyroscopic frame, angling itself more directly at the dense leading edge of the swarm. If the zombies had cared to look, they could have made out a pattern of hexagonal dimples on the shallowly curved face of the disk, which bore more than a casual resemblance to the geometric ornamentation of a manhole cover. It continued to drop, now almost directly downward, to just above the zombies' heads...

The sound of the blast was no louder than the screams, and neither was louder than the sound of shattering bodies. Back on Flamingo, two groups almost as large as the departed swarm coalesced into one as they followed the sound and scent.

The sound of explosions could be heard clearly from Circus Circus. The civilians, at first heartened, were looking confused and increasingly alarmed. "So, you finally break out your hardware, and the best thing you can think of to do with it is wipe out a few hundred zombies," Krista said. "Meanwhile, my husband is surrounded by a hundred thousand zombies you haven't even touched. How does that help him?"

"Oh, it could help him greatly," Branson said. "Your husband's plan to draw the horde has already succeeded, rather to a fault. Now what we need most is something to draw some of them away, particularly the outlying swarms that are still mobile enough to chase or cut off anyone who gets past the main horde. My mines are accomplishing just that. It's paradoxical, but true, that the greatest strategic value of mines is in _drawing_ your enemy's personnel: The oldest and most enduring argument for the effectiveness of mine-laying is that one soldier wounded by a mine requires two more soldiers just to haul him off the field. In that respect, the horde is no different from a conventional army- except, of course, they don't evacuate their wounded, they eat them. I project that my mortar can kill hundreds outright, and a thousand or more through `infighting', and draw up to ten thousand more away from the primary horde."

"Yeah?" Krista said with a searing stare. "And where will they go?"

Branson looked at the tablet, and checked his watch. "By my projections, right about... here."

Hundreds of zombies swarmed right behind the mortar carrier as it turned a corner onto Sahara. Thousands more followed, and still more converged from every direction, including Circus Circus. The carrier executed a turn and slowed to a halt. The rear hatch dropped, revealing the crew as they lowered the mortar to maximum depression and loaded a magazine of flechette canisters. Overhead, the military helicopter coasted in. On a convenient overpass, the vehicle known as the Thing rolled out and fired 60,000 incendiary flechettes.

At the concentrations of the swarms, there were no misses, only overkill.

In the dark, Pearl's hands were supple, strong and sensual. Jay's hormones were racing rings around his mind as she led him by the hand, deeper into the recesses of the mall's subbasement. "Where are we going?"

"Here," Pearl said. She let go of his hands. He heard her running her hands over a wall, tapping and rapping. Then there was a "snick" of a box cutter, followed by the sound of cutting plaster and wall paper. Finally, there was a click of a latch, and a door swung open. Pearl all but pulled her groom inside, through something like a curtain, and shut the door behind them.

The silence inside was eerie, and even the various odors of the zombies were indiscernible. A very faint hum started, which Jay guessed was some kind of air filtration system. "What is this place?" he asked. A light came on, its glow blood-red.

The room was the size of a big storage locker, and Jay guessed that it probably had been a storeroom. The walls, floor, and ceiling were all lined with some kind of fabric. There were two cots, and a stack of strikingly nondescript boxes. Pearl opened one of them. Turning to Jay, she held up a ..22 high-capacity carbine and a helmet. "This is military," Jay said. "And that- that's like Austin's gun! He said he got it from-"

"The _angeles de la muerte_," Pearl said, looking away. "They set this up as a safe room, and they left someone on the outside to watch it."

"Holy- You can hear, can't you?"

She touched her hearing aid. "Better than anybody, when I want to." She made a slight gesture, and signed, _Not now._

"Man... You've got the best cover ever, don't you? Even people trying to keep secrets won't worry about someone who's supposed to be deaf."

_They should,_ Pearl signed. _We deaf, not stupid._

Jay nodded. "Did you ever use it with me?" Pearl shook her head. "What now?"

_Up to you._

Jay sat down on a cot, and Pearl seated herself across from him. "We have to show the others this gear," he said, supplementing himself with signs. "We don't have to tell how we found it. I suppose Austin will guess, but he won't talk." Pearl nodded. "So I guess all that leaves is... What do you want to do?"

Pearl raised her hand in a universal gesture as she turned out the light.


	29. Shell Game

**This is pretty much a "segue". My original plan was to have this be a page or so of lead into an action scene, but once I got Branson pontificating and clashing egos with Tal, I ended up with enough for a chapter in itself. Incidentally, I have a VERY old idea for a fantasy/ sci-fi hybrid featuring the Mongols, Subedei and all. This chapter draws heavily on research for that "project".**

"Our force has now logged 29,000 confirmed kills against the infected," Austin said evenly as he gave his nightly report. "We estimate the size of the horde in and immediately around the Planet Hollywood building to be just under 90 thousand. We have direct visual confirmation that several large groups separated from the horde to follow this afternoon's diversionary action, joining many more from the adjacent area. As a result, the area immediately behind the rear parking garage is clear of the horde. There is also an unexpected opening at the south entrance of the annex. We are evaluating the feasibility of a second breakout through there. In addition, we have discovered a hidden cache of military gear, and evidence of possible secret..."

He cut himself off at a clearly urgent knock at his door. "What is it?" he said, looking back to see Sydney. The newcomer only pointed up, and Austin only had to listen to hear a sound like thunder, almost directly overhead... then, the first firecracker "pow" of a detonating area-denial mine.

Branson met with Tal inside his trailer, in a dining area at the rear. Outside, they watched the Thing return to Circus Circus, missing two of its six recoilless guns, escorting the mortar carrier and an APC. Gathering crowds cheered. In the middle distance, gunfire and explosions could still be heard from the force that continued to fight, and bait, the zombies, including a blast of a shell from a dismounted recoilless gun. "I believe we can agree," Branson said, "that Phase 1 of Operation Subedei is a success."

"Yeah," Tal said neutrally, then added, "I could have done it. I could have done it _better_."

"Probably," said Branson, "though I remind you, again, that you really must learn some humility. No doubt, you are very good at killing zombies while staying alive. Perhaps you are the best. But you lack formal training in any advanced tactics or strategy, whereas a number of my men, including those I entrusted to carry out this phase, are trained and experienced military officers. _They_ do not like it when you praise your abilities too much. Be that as it may... have you read the books I gave you?"

"Yeah," Tal said. "Everything there is to know about Subedei, the greatest general in history..."

"Well, quality is hard to quantify, especially at almost 800 years' remove," said Branson. "But he was, at the very least, one of the most _successful _generals in history. Right-hand man to Genghis Kahn in the unification of Mongolia and the conquest of most of China; commander of history's only successful invasion of Russia, in winter to boot; and leader the Mongols' invasion of Hungary- which, of course, is what got him in our history books. Now, what were Subedei's three core doctrines?"

"He always tried to use phony retreats to get his enemies where he wanted them, like you're doing," said Tal. "And he did that because he only fought when and where he could win."

"That's a fair summary of two of his doctrines," said Branson. "Now, what was the third, probably the Mongols' most crucial and enduring contribution to military strategy, the same doctrine adopted by Zhukov against the Nazis?"

Tal pondered a moment before answering, "He always kept a big part of his troops out of the action... until it was time for some big part of his big plan. Then, no matter what else happened, no matter how _bad_ it got, he held that reserve back until just the right time... And if the right time never came, he would have abandoned the plan, even the rest of his men, rather than use his reserve when he didn't want to."

"...Which, fortunately for the Mongols, didn't happen often, if ever," Branson concluded. "That is why I am giving you the greatest responsibility. You will remain with the force I have designated the reserve: Not only my best own men, but fighters gathered from the survivors of Fremont Street, and my pick of the elite of Circus Circus and Sahara. They are already gathering at Stratosphere. Tomorrow, you will go to them and take command. At the time of my choosing, you will lead them into battle according to my plan, and if it comes to that, you will do whatever is necessary to _stop _them from doing anything else. I am entrusting you with this responsibility not simply because of your abilities, but because of your reputation: You made your name as a fighter before you fought for the casinos, and you fight for me by your own choice. Even those who have no loyalty to me will, at the least, show you some respect. There is no one else I would choose over you to perform this duty."

Tal gave the chieftain a calm but very cold gaze. "And what if I choose not to?"

"If that is your choice, then I will let you go," Branson said, casually setting a small transmitter on the table. "I will let you leave Vegas in one of my trucks. Also, if you should try to slip away in your Caddy like you did when you left the casinos to join me, or something even more reckless, I will use this to set off the self-destruct charges you installed in the chassis."

"You bastard," Tal said.

"I didn't put the bomb there, just a little extra wiring," Branson said. "Besides, I wouldn't be where I am if I didn't always hold onto some leverage. Of course, you still have my complete trust, to do the sensible thing..."

Tal's cold stare grew hotter. It was probably fortunate for both of them that it was at that moment that they heard Krista pounding at the door, shouting and swearing to make her unborn son's ears catch fire. "Branson Missouri, you SOB!" she shouted. There was the "ching-ching" of a pumped shotgun, against the best efforts of female attendants Branson had left outside. "Open this door or I'll blow it down!"

Branson undid two locks and a bolt to open the door, to find his attendants wrestling semi-effectually for Krista's gun while his guards closed in somewhat hesitantly. Krista looked surprised, if no less furious. "Rest assured," he said from the marginal security of the screen door, "I cannot imagine what this is about."

Krista pulled one arm free to jab an accusing finger at him. "Don't play dumb! There's shells falling out of the sky over Planet Hollywood, and they're full of mines just like yours! It's killing zombies, but endangering everyone else! Don't pretend you don't know about it!"

In the distance, there a loud boom that rolled through the city. "The facts would seem to be self-evident, but all I know is that I certainly have nothing to do with it," Branson said. He looked over his shoulder as Tal stepped up behind him. There was a bright flash, followed by a louder boom. "That was a 155mm pyrotechnic shell, fired from the east. I have no heavy artillery deployed in that direction, and all of my men are under the strictest orders _not_ to fire on the PH complex. In any event, why would I fire a _flare _shell that would draw zombies for miles, when I just spent all day drawing them away from there?"

In tears, Krista pulled free and rushed the other way. Branson turned back to Tal. "Well, it should be obvious what's happening," he said. "Enid Oklahoma is shelling the horde."

"Well, at least he's killing zombies," Tal said.

"No, he's undoing my work," Branson said. "More than that, he's interfering with my plans. He knows perfectly well that the _real _point of Phase 1 was to draw zombies away from _our_ positions, and clear enough room for us to roll out in decent formations instead of wallowing in zombies from the moment we start our engines! If zombies start going back to the south, others will come back here, and we will be back to _zero _offensive mobility!"

"We won't be able to help Austin," Tal said, almost murmuring.

"We won't be able to stop the Tank, either," Branson said. As he spoke, he slipped the transmitter into a pocket inside his jacket.


	30. Mined Over Matter

"Everyone off the roof!" Austin shouted, leaning out the door. "Everyone off the roof! If you're in trouble, sound off!" He stifled a cry as another pyrotechnic shell detonated almost directly overhead.

"Sir," came a voice over the radio, "this is Broadway, with Topeka and Louisville! The rest of us got in, but Louisville is wounded, we're carrying him. I can see you, but there's a big pack trailing us, and there's something ahead of us, like a little satellite dish. It seemed to upright itself when we got near it, and we can't go back!"

"Hold on, I'm coming out!" Austin said. Suddenly, he was pulled back and slammed to the wall. As the door swung shut, there was a particularly loud explosion, and a momentary burst of static on the channel.

"If anybody's out there, you can't help them," Cold said, holding his forearm against Austin's throat. Then the commando hauled his nominal superior back from the door and waited. "Okay, I do believe we're alright. For future reference, chute mines don't normally target lone humans in airborne mode. But for an armed man who stays in one place, they'll make an-" As he spoke, a blast tore a three-inch hole in the metal door and gouged into the concrete wall behind it. "...Exception."

"We got a topside feed from a security camera," a female commando announced as they entered Austin's office. She held up a tablet computer to show a grainy image of the south end of the roof. There was a boom, and another, and then another shower of mines hit the roof. Several of the Fleas sparkled and smoked like flares as they descended, and blew up with a cloud of smoke and an especially loud, oddly high-pitched "SPANG" on landing. One of these dropped off the edge and out of sight.

"Those are `tracer' submunitions, to mark the distribution of the rest," Cold said. "There should be a few for the Bees, too... There's one, just hanging... I'll be damned. The horde is jamming the seekers. Too many of them for the AI to flag a target, I suppose."

"What are we dealing with here?" Austin said.

"Right. Here's the deal. You saw Branson use these mines this afternoon, with 81 mm shells. But that was the small-scale version, designated `pursuit deterrence'. This is the `tactical area denial' edition, loaded into a full-size 155 mm shell. It looks more like a torpedo than an artillery shell, which cost a bit in accuracy and range, but more than made up for it in payload. The standard load was six manhole covers, 32 Bees, and 100 of those wretched Fleas, plus 12 tracers. Enid's self-propelled gun should be carrying six of these shells, and three more with alternate loads. The last one makes four, all standard. The rest have been pyrotechnics and practice rounds, meant to mix us up- Aw..."

A cascade of fiery tracers fell in a swath across the roof. "That would be the `strategic deterrence' shell. 450 Fleas _and_ 36 flares, and three..." He pointed a trembling finger at an oblong shape that seemed to sprout legs, just before dropping out of view somewhere in the recesses of the roof. He exhaled a deep breath and finished, "It's a variant of the manhole cover, we call it the Mace. It's got a different blast disk, better sensors and AI, and a tripod mount with 360 degree traverse and 120 elevation and depression. It's designed to destroy helicopters "

Day 3

As dawn approached, Austin addressed a gathering of volunteers. "We lost eleven good people last night," he said. "Twenty more took significant wounds, and seven of them have lost parts or the whole of a hand or foot. There is absolutely no question who did this, and why: Enid Oklahoma, having already slaughtered thousands at Henderson and Fremont Street, used his most powerful weapon to launch more than a thousand munitions at the complex. While his attack killed hundreds of the horde, his intent was clearly to harm us, and he has succeeded. We are now not only fewer, but in a much poorer position to attempt escape: We have a score of additional wounded, dozens if not hundreds of mines scattered across our lines of escape, and more zombies converging on our most sensitive positions. But we are not giving up.

"We will not only proceed with our plan for a breakout, we will expand it. Our breakout teams will not merely run for safety, but attack and strategically divert the horde to cover additional breakouts. But first, I need people to carry out a special mission: We're taking back the roof, from the mines and the zombies."

The blast of a 6cm thermobaric weapon, fired from a window of a hotel room high above the mall roof, flared brighter than the rising sun. The thunderous **BOOM** was accompanied by shrieks of dying zombies and a chorus of smaller explosions from detonating mines. A moment later, Cold cracked open the door. He stepped out, and Austin followed, wearing the same black gear. Austin froze in his tracks, staring at a half-upright disk, thirty feet away and about ten feet down. . "The manhole cover says hello," said Cold. Austin "Let's just mosey along, shall we? That's good. An AI mine is like a snake: If you just steer clear and keep walking, they leave you alone. Though, I wouldn't recommend sending anybody else out that door until it's taken care of."

They descended past the landing where the mine rested, down to the lower roof. Walls towered on either side of them. A few vehicles were parked on the asphalt, including a panel truck whose top did not reach even halfway back up to the top of the roof. "You know, we should have parked the parking shuttles up here, or at least in the upper level of the parking garage. If we can make the path safe, we could still send breakout teams into the garage from here. We never really explored what all was up here."

"It shows," said Cold. "Can't be helped now, and I wouldn't recommend working it into any plans now. The best part of your original plan is that it literally puts you and them on a level playing field. Adding extra levels, literally or otherwise, would just invite foul-ups. Stay back, this could be trouble."

A loose-knit pack of zombies was moving toward them. The real problem was that they were walking straight through a cluster of Flea mines. They ducked behind a car. "Sir," Austin said, pointing. Cold swore softly but foully: Somehow, a mine had come to rest under the car, in the middle of a small pool of oil. They were retreating into a recess in the walls when a volley of blasts erupted. In the midst of the explosions, there was a pop like an uncorked champagne bottle, and then a final blast showered white-hot shrapnel all over the car.

"Chain detonation with an air-burst incendiary-fragmentation charge in the mix," said Cold, eying the still-smoldering shrapnel. "They'll do that when they register multiple targets. Best to step lively now." They hurried past the car and around the corner, behind them, they heard the sizzle of igniting gas and then the pop of a detonating mine, followed by the flash and "whoosh" of an igniting fuel tank.

"Huh. I would have thought that would be bigger," Austin said.

"Yeah, that's the movies talking. It even gets to me sometimes, all those action flicks with their big, beautiful fireballs... Ever actually _try_ blowing up a car? I suppose not, but take my word for it, it's hard."

Austin cut in, "What you said, about chain detonation... Do you mean even the Fleas have AI?"

"A Flea has just enough brain power that it can usually blow up an approaching adult human and not a passing sheep," Cold said as they advanced again. "But what they're really good at is _talking _to each other. They deploy in sets of six, so they tend to cluster. After that, each one acts like a microphone, or it might be better to say a seismograph: It picks up vibrations in the environment, and generates its own, just enough to send simple signals to other mines. That allows for more sophisticated responses."

"Like blowing up together when there's enough targets."

"Right." Cold paused to dispatch a pair of zombies limping or crawling after them. "Though even that was supposed to be just part of a bigger picture: Land mines aren't popular, and things like these are less popular than most. The people who got these built sold it as an opportunity to `repurpose' the technology: Land mines would no longer be booby traps, but intelligence assets. They would be used to gather information on enemy troop movements, head off surprise attacks, even end wars before they began."

"And guys with fingers and toes blown off would be what? Collateral damage? A bonus?"

Cold chuckled. "I didn't come up with it, I just followed orders. We all did, to the very end. Just so that's understood. Step a bit to one side here. Ahh, here's what we're looking for." The object looked eerily like a smashed insect. The convex blast disk and partly-extended sensor were shaped like the front of a beetle, complete with shield-like thorax and two goggle eyes. The legs of the tripod, one snapped, one crumpled and one simply half-extended, were blatantly insectoid. "Well, it's safe to say this one's a dud," said Austin.

"It's `duds' that cause the most trouble," said Cold, "and don't count this one out. All of these mines are meant to self-destruct if they don't arm and deploy, so that right there means this is overdue to blow. They're also designed with a redundant self-destruct mechanism if the core circuits stop running. That means that there's probably something working in there: The CPU, at least, I'm guessing that sensor too, and maybe the transmitter. Yeah, it can signal other mines. Maces are designed to track a target and fire together, to improve their chances of knocking a helicopter out of the sky. But manhole covers will do in a pinch. Yeah, like that one. And that one."

"What do we do?" Austin hissed.

"No sudden moves. Step to one side, watch out for that Flea, see if the manhole covers track us... yeah, they're both locked. I'd say step back, but that Bee we passed is gonna be touchier the second time round."

"I'll radio the others..."

"Not the best idea. They listen. I could probably shoot out the sensor on one mine, but the other wouldn't like that at all. Oh, no. Don't do that." Austin edged his foot toward the little mine until his foot was almost touching it. Then he gave a swift kick.

He caught one ribbon fin of the mine well enough to send it tumbling a few feet, and miraculously it landed right on top of the anti-helicopter mine. He and the commando both instantly turned and ran. Volunteers on the other side of the roof saw the flame and shrapnel as the blast of the anti-helicopter mine went mostly straight up and one manhole cover fired through it. A split second later, there was a "ponk", a burst of a carbine on full auto, and a second explosion as a bouncing Bee munition expended itself against a wall.

Cold and Austin looked out from the cover of the burning car. "Listen to me... very carefully," said the commando. "You... _suck_."

From behind a half-opened rooftop door, the female commando aimed a weapon that looked like it had been commissioned for the Space Marines at the manhole cover on the landing down and across from her. A squeeze of the trigger sprayed the mine with a burst of three 12-gauge blasts. The mine rose, swiveled in her direction, and dropped flat again. She swore, worked a redundant pump action, and fired a concussion grenade. From out of the resulting cloud of smoke, the mine came tumbling down, to land on the asphalt.

"In the course of sixty minutes," Austin reported grimly, "a total of fourteen well-equipped and cautious volunteers were unable to find or clear a line of advance of more than 10 m from any point in any direction. There were no fatalities, but several minor injuries. One anti-helicopter mine was found already inert, and destroyed. Another was discovered and confirmed live, but could not be approached or destroyed remotely. A total of at least 35 munitions were destroyed, including 11 `Bees' and 2 `manhole covers', but many more live rounds are in evidence. Infected activity is also clearly increasing. In summary, the rooftop can no longer be considered safe for helicopters or personnel. No further helicopters should be sent for any purpose. Austin out."

He shut off the radio, sighed, and said to nobody in particular, "We're on our own."


	31. The Plan Is The Plan

"Despite the setbacks, we are going through with the plan to break out today," Austin said. "We really have no choice. At present, we have enough ammunition to provide a `surplus' to support a mobile operation. If, instead, we hold our present positions, the surplus will turn into an irreplaceable deficit within 24 hours. The plan is the plan, and for better or worse, we stick with it, because we don't have get to start over with a better one.

"The primary breakout plan remains the same: Twenty people will emerge from Sur La Table and go for the shuttles parking garage. Two more teams of six each will provide support and, if necessary, diversion. One will follow right behind, lay down covering fire, and then go down the escalators to the valet parking level. The other will go out through the Wyland Gallery, and head for the right rear entrance. If possible, these teams will join up with the primary breakout or stage their own. The ultimate objective of every breakout team will be to make for Terrible's, where Branson has a hundred men with two of his armored personnel carriers waiting to render assistance.

"As we speak, another team of eight is using a newly discovered passageway to emerge outside the mall. They will scout for, and if possible neutralize, mines and large zombie groups to prepare for the main breakout. Then, when the breakout begins, they will use the foreseeable diversion to attempt to reenter the mall. If they are successful, a team of twelve will emerge from the theater, and the two teams will fight their way to each other and _then_ attempt a breakout through the annex."

Directly to the south of the Planet Hollywood casino annex, on the other side of Harmon Avenue, was a large parking garage, where some half-remembered rumors told the casino directed high-profile guests who wanted to be highly discrete. It was there that the first team emerged, led by a black-clad commando. Griffin was right behind her, armed with an HIWS, which was now one of two in the hands of Austin's force. Six more followed, the hindmost being Jay and Pearl. It was a basement level, not completely submerged, and sunlight came through openings about two-thirds of the way up. Numerous shadows of milling feet were cast on the wall. The commando vaulted on top of a Porsche, looked out and confirmed: "The zombies are back. It could be worse."

Jay looked around. The level was smaller than the ones above, and only about a third of the spaces were full, but the vehicles that filled them were extraordinary. There were two berths for limousines, one of which was occupied by a stretched Hummer 2 limousine. There were also a couple luxury SUVs, and the rest were sports cars, including a classic Aston Martin convertible. Jay stepped toward the Aston Martin, when Pearl touched his arm and pointed to the Hummer. She led him to the rear, and pointed. "Diplomatic plates," she said.

The commando stepped in, examining the vehicle, especially its six oversized wheels and what could be seen of the shocks. "Yeah. This thing wasn't just an ambassador's car, it would have been a functioning _embassy_. The body looks standard, as these things go, there should be space for twenty or so if they didn't put in a hot tub or something. But it's definitely customized underneath, a _lot_..." She dropped to the pavement and stuck her head underneath the vehicle. "Damn. Boys... this thing is _bomb-proofed_."

She jumped to her feet and looked about for one particular volunteer. "Jesse! Think you can hotwire this thing?"

The individual in question had just finished hotwiring the Aston Martin. "I can hotwire anything _with_ anything," he said. He stepped out of the car and grinned at Jay. "All yours. Think of it as a wedding present."

Pearl beat Jay to the car, and magnanimously took the passenger seat. "Nice," the commando said as they pulled out. She turned to Jesse. "You disable the alarm on this thing?"

Jesse grinned wider. "Didn't have to."

"Good." The commando broke the passenger side window, and the scream of a claxon filled the garage. **"DRIVE!"**

More than a thousand zombies were in pursuit as the Aston Martin raced past the PH parking garage, and still more were breaking loose from the horde. A rooftop camera recorded a swarm of at least a hundred emerging from the garage to join the chase, setting off a cluster of anti-personnel mines and one manhole cover.

"All right," Austin said to nobody in particular. "So far... so good. Breakout Team A, deploy!"

Outside Sur La Table, two manhole covers set by the commandos detonated thunderously. The bulk of the shrapnel was absorbed by the nearest zombies, but larger arrow-like explosively-formed projectiles tore through their ranks like a torch through butter, sailing over the intervening space of the escalators, smashing through glass and metal, all the way to the central rear doors that opened directly into the parking garage. In the midst of the storm of noise, smoke and blood, the front gate of the store raised to waist height. A battery of automatic weapons opened up. Even in the carnage and confusion, there was no difficulty in acquiring targets, and even less in hitting them.

"Team A, advance! Team B, deploy!" The gate raised higher, and a score of volunteers stormed forward. Their advance to the escalators was hampered less by the zombies still alive then by the dead underfoot. Still, they made good time, and split up into twelve and eight, the larger group advancing on the right and the smaller group going left, laying down cover with a machine gun and an automatic shotgun. Behind them, two commandos emerged, one armed with the remaining HIWS. A shell went over the heads of zombies on the right, showering shrapnel down on their heads. The next was a flechette canister that devastated the zombies emerging from the garage.

The rest of Team B emerged from the store, ducking under the gate as it descended. They laid down covering fire while the commandos worked together to load and fire a second flechette canister, this time to the left. The larger part of Team A reached the other side of the escalators, aided by a series of machine gun volleys that the huge gunner on the other side fired from the other side. But the rest were stuck in the middle, with zombies in front and behind, and sill more coming out of the restaurant to the side. Worse, the streams of zombies coming out of the garage were, if anything, intensifying. Two more flechette shells from the commandos brought only a moment's relief. Even the piling up of bodies had little effect, as many of the dead and dying pitched over or straight through the ravaged barricades lining the escalator pit. Meanwhile, packs of zombies were being cut down at the gate of Sur La Table, as the horde advanced back.

"There's no way we can advance, and there's no point!" the Team A leader called in desperately. Across the pit, a burst from the automatic shotgun was cut short as the drum magazine ran out. "There must be _thousands_ backed up in the garage! We have to abort!" There was a crash and hideous scream as a zombie grabbed his rear guard through a plate glass window.

"Fall back, and regroup at the escalators if you can," Austin said. "Team B leader, what's your status?"

"I'm at the bottom of the down escalator, the rest of my team is with the commandos at the top," came the reply. "I killed a dozen or so getting down here, and there's more sniffing around. Then there's a swarm right outside. They're spread out, and it doesn't look like there's more behind them."

"Okay, here's what we're going to do," Austin said. "Scout Team found a vehicle across the street that has real muscle and lots of room. Team leader says it won't be any trouble to get to the valet parking level. Team B, descend as planned, leaving the commandos at the top for cover. Team A leader, follow with your right wing. The rest will make their way to the commandos and descend if they can, and retreat into the restaurant if they can't. Scout team will pick up as many as they can."

He had scarcely finished giving instructions before there was the thunder of a high-explosive shell, fired into the garage, and another, closer at hand on the left. Then gunfire, the commandos' carbines, the volunteers' rifles, sidearms and the machine gun. In the midst of it, a voice came over the radio: "Team C leader calling." It was Sydney. "I have a report to make."

"What is it?"

"I'm looking out the door, and I can't hardly believe it... but it's clear, at least to the storefront across from us. I mean, there's plenty of zombies walking around, groups where they're feeding on their own dead, but we could open the door and walk right through the lot of them."

"No Sydney," Austin said, rubbing his eyes. "The parking garage is obviously a lot worse than we thought, and there's no telling what's going to happen here..."

"Respectfully, sir... Going out this way was the plan, and so far it's looking better than we would have hoped. It's a chance, and we aren't going to get it again."

"No. Hold your position. That's an order. Out." Austin turned off his radio.

Sydney looked to the Amazon sisters and the rest of his team. "Well, you heard him... The plan is the plan." He hefted his hammer and grinned. "Now let's show 'em how we do it in Pilbarra."


	32. Austin Takes the Stage

It took the combined efforts of Jesse and the commando to start the limousine. Jesse drove, while the commando operated an unexpected extra, a mine-detection scanner with a visual feed in the dashboard. "Say," said Jesse, "who did this belong to?"

The commando laughed. "We always used to say... You don't ask, and they don't tell."

The limousine pulled out of the garage at a leisurely 25 miles per hour. The detonation of a "Flea" mine under the wheels felt like going over a speed bump. The rest of their team followed behind them. "We got a change in situation," the commando reported. "There's zees coming out of the annex entrance. Nothing we can't handle, but it could give us some trouble." As she spoke, a sunroof on the SUV opened, and Griffin stood up and fired the HIWS into the front ranks of a swarm pouring out of the mall annex.

"Yes, there's definitely something happening with the horde's movements," Austin said. "Teams A and B, what's your status?"

"We're ready to be picked up," Team A leader said. "17 of us, plus the commandos still at the top. We blew away the zombies at the curb, but there's more gathering. The a stretch hummer pulling up now."

"See that button on the inside of the steering wheel?" the female commando said. "Push it." He did. A piece of the grille slid to one side, and a concealed machine gun fired through the aperture. The hail of bullets claimed fewer zombies than the vehicle itself as it plowed into the loose-knit mob. Gull-wing doors on both sides swung open. The bulk of Team A rushed in from the curb, while the others went around. The female commando laid down fire over a median on the other side, where more zombies were coming across the street from the garage. Then the SUV jumped the median as it pulled up on the other side of the median, and Griffin fired an explosive shell into the midst of the valet parking level. Within a minute, both vehicles were pulling away. Behind them, alarms blared from scores of ravaged luxury vehicles.

The two commandos who remained behind fell back to Sur La Table, firing their carbines. From the left, zombies advanced, but fanned out even as they did. From the parking garage entrance, on the other hand, they advanced in a solid mass. The voice of Cold came over their radios: "Green, what's happening on the right flank?"

The commando with the HIWS answered: "It's strange, sir. There's a few packs outside the Wyland Gallery, feeding on their dead. The rest... Sir, there's a solid column of zombies, backed up all the way around the curve. But they seem to be going _right_ past us."

"That must be why some of them are coming out the annex," Cold said to Austin "The south side of the main corridor is gridlocked. Something's drawing them."

Austin spoke into Cold's microphone: "Have you expended all your HIWS shells?"

"There's one left," Green said. "It's thermobaric."

Austin nodded, sighed and spoke into his own radio. "Austin Texas to Sydney Australia... Where are you?"

The cockney voice sounded out of breath, but cheerful: "Oi was about to give you a call. I gotta confess, I took a little unilat'ral initiative, w'in the p'rameters of orders, and I accept full responsibility. I admit, it turned out a bit 'airy, an' I'm afraid we lost a few. I take full responsibility for that as well."

"Sydney. Where the hell are you?"

There was no question that there was a grin on Sydney's face as he said: "Texas... We're in the shuttles."

The valet-parking access road was roughly L-shaped, and its other end was an entrance to the parking garage. The hummer burst out, plowing through a swarm of zombies and setting off a cluster of Bee and Flea mines. The armor absorbed the blasts, where the swarm didn't. The SUV followed the limo through a ponderous right turn. More zombies were coming from behind, into the midst of the regathering swarm, and still more were pouring from the garage's main entrance. Griffin fired a shell ahead. It sailed over the heads of the zombies and burst in a cloud of fire. Scores of zombies were engulfed, with many more sent reeling by sheer concussive force, and mines went off like popcorn. Still, the limo shook from mine blasts and impacts with zombies as it plowed forward, the SUV right behind. The limo slewed at the raking blast of a manhole cover that tore one of the limo's rear tires to shreds and put a slow leak in another. Then a bounding antipersonnel mine bounced off the limo's roof right into the SUV's path. It swerved at the last second, and then toppled with the blast. The limo kept rolling, even as a rear hatch swung open and the horde once again resurged. Then gunfire erupted from a rear hatch, and a flechette canister through the sunroof decimated the zombies emerging from the main entrance to the garage. Finally, more gunfire and blunt-force carnage erupted as an armored parking shuttle came bursting out of the secondary entrance. "All aboard!" Sydney shouted cheerfully.

The alarm was still blaring as the Aston Martin pulled into the Terrible's parking lot. The zombies were not far behind, but clearly exhausted. "Hey," Jay said as he surveyed the stern faces of approaching guards. "I don't see any bikes. And where's the APCs? I should call this in..."

"Please don't do that," Pearl said. Clearly regretful, she raised her pistol.

Bruce strode into the back lot of Treasure Island, where two APCs were parked next to another turretless vehicle. "Okay, we kept radio silence," he said, "and in the next ten minutes everybody in the city is going to hate our guts. Now what's going on?"

Branson smiled down from the cupola of the ARV. "Oh, I think that will be clear momentarily..."

"Everyone listen. We have a new plan," Austin addressed the score or so of volunteers back stage. He pointed out to the theater balconies. "I want spotters up there, and I want a perimeter at the base of this stage." He picked up his radio. "_Everybody_ in Sur La Table, withdraw to the rear. But prep to move, fast." He loaded a new magazine in his carbine. 500 rounds. 250 deaths if he wasn't stingy.

Cold stepped up beside him. "Having not been appraised of your plan," he said, "I would like to go on record as saying I am completely against it." He raised his own carbine, and two more commandos stepped up on either side of them.

"Duly noted," Austin said. "While you're at it, you can tell Green to ready that shell..." He pointed to the sentries on either side of the theater entrance. "You... open those doors."


	33. Inside Out

**I know it's been a while, and this might not be much. For the record, I have mostly been working on a massive report for the massive project that's supposed to earn me a master's degree, while working some on a new project I'm trying out in the "Walking Dead" fandom and trying to resolve out some story points and scientific issues (on the vein of "how does this NOT kill everybody?") with this one. I finally decided that I'm about as ready to move forward as I'm going to be, so here it is...**

Pearl kept her gun on the radio, rather than her groom. Nor was there any question in Jay's mind that she genuinely regretted it. "Did Branson put you up to this?" he asked, genuinely uncertain. "Or did somebody put him up to something they planned?"

She shook her head. "No. He had nothing to do with the angels, and I care even less about him. I just figured out his plan. Pretty good plan, too. We live."

"The others are coming," Jay said. He could hear the limo, certainly within a block or two.

"Good. They live, too."

He looked at her, stern and sad. "I love you."

"I know."

It had always been Austin's experience that, at the times of his greatest focus, the intensity was such that, paradoxically, it became effortless to turn his mind elsewhere. So it was as he let fly on the zombies advancing down the center aisle. Cold was more than covering him, picking off any zombie that got halfway across his nominal 20-meter kill zone. So many bodies were piled at the halfway mark that the zombies were scrambling to get over, and still the commando picked them off. Even so, Austin was more than halfway through the 500-round magazine. He lined up the sight and fired twice just as a zombie walked into his kill zone, did the same twice more, and shifted his aim in time to take down one at the halfway mark while Cold picked off the fifth of its companions. Cold held his fire long enough for Austin to take the last of the pack. Then they both opened fire together as a wave of zombies surged into the zone. Despite the fury of battle, if not because of it, Austin listened intently to incoming reports.

"There must be ten thousand zombies behind us, and another thirty kay behind them!" Sydney exclaimed.

One of the Amazon sisters added, "We've moved the other shuttle down to the upper valet level. If another breakout team comes out, we can go up or down to pick them up."

"Everybody's fallen back, including my wingman," Green said. "We've got a major change in our situation. The ones from the garage are still coming, but the surge has leveled off. Some of them are turning around and going down the escalators. They're falling back on the left, except for a steady flow from the direction of the Vee Theater. The densest visible concentration is on the right flank. They're still too packed in to go anywhere, but if it loosens up even a little, it's gonna be bad news."

Austin cut off his mic and hissed to Cold, "Is it safe to fire the thermobaric shell in here? Even for us?"

Cold thumbed his own mic off. "Not even remotely." He switched the mic back on and said, "Green- fire right."

There was no reply. Only a dull "whush", and a sudden, reverberating thunder. All over the mall, glass shattered, zombies and volunteers alike staggered, and the air filled with surging heat and the scent of burning flesh. "Green," Austin said. Only then did he pause from firing. "Green, are...?"

Cold shook his head, and spoke into the channel: "Everyone who can hear me, cover your faces with heavy cloth. Make sure your companions do the same. It will be enough for the worst of the smoke and... particulates." Already, billows of smoke could be seen hugging the ceiling. "It's going to be bad for a few minutes, but it will thin out. Check each other for signs of concussion or permanent hearing loss. Don't worry about fires spreading to your position; they will already have burned themselves out. Do watch out for any concentrations of unspent accelerant; it will be a black fluid, sprayed in very fine drops, and it is toxic as well as flammable." As he spoke, he mowed down a dozen zombies to empty his magazine.

"Send your men forward. If the path's clear, stage another breakout," Cold said as he changed his magazine. The empty one went into a reloading machine unearthed in the basement, which was a companion to another the commandos had brought with them. A volunteer was loading a whole box of ammunition into the second machine like a giant clip, while two more deputies wheeled in a dolly with two cases from the basement. "If they go out in two teams, at least one will make it. Either way, it will draw more of the horde away from us."

"Yeah. That's been Branson's plan all along, isn't it?" Austin asked rhetorically. He withdrew as his own magazine went empty, leaving commandos on either side to fill his place with minimal effort. "Even he can't handle the horde without putting holes in the skyline. But if some of the horde escapes, just enough to pose a serious threat, he can blast them all and look like a hero. Then he can point to how difficult even that was, and say that there was no way for anyone to fight their way to us. He's probably going to be right."

Cold returned to firing position, and waved Austin back. "You're right. He never told me as much, but I can piece things together, and you just put a finger on something else. He never said when..."

Austin nodded and gave the orders rapidly. "Everyone in Sur La Table, listen. Send forward observers to the front, just enough to open the doors and survey the damage to the structure and the horde. Then withdraw. Nobody else moves forward, nobody engages the horde unless attacked. Just open the doors... and let them come to you." At that, he shut off his radio and returned to the firing line.

Smoke billowed from the shattered windows of the mall, which was probably the only thing that kept the air breathable. Behind the smoke came something like dust, some rising in billows like the smoke, some drifting and swirling along the ground. Much of it _was_ dust, but the rest was ash, and the still-lingering charnel smell left no doubt what it had come from.

From the right rear entrance of the mall, maimed, crippled or simply disoriented zombies were stumbling out, and not many were moving in to take their place. But one zombie stood by, watching, in a British flat cap with a carbine slung clumsily over his shoulder. Andy Capp looked over his shoulder. The most direct path to the ground was several flights of stairs. At the bottom, hundreds of zombies were gathering, and thousands were already setting out after a large part of the horde that had set out in the direction of Terrible's. Andy Capp was well aware that they were chasing the group that had escaped, which was more than could be said of most of the zombies doing the chasing. He understood well enough that all they needed to persist in the chase was to know that other zombies were doing the same. At that point, he looked up.

Andy Capp jostled his way down the stairway, intermittently looking up. A few times, he used his gun, which got the other zombies moving faster. A goodly number trailed after him when he reached the ground and shuffled off, and some looked over their shoulders to see what, if anything, Andy Capp might be seeing.

Then Capp did see something, small, or so it seemed. It briefly streaked across the sun, at the apex of its arc, and then as it dropped there was a claxon sound, growing louder and louder. It was built-in to the object, designed to warn personnel to get as far away as they could, which was deemed acceptable for a weapon whose primary purpose was mine clearing. Capp looked into an open doorway, where zombies were already crowding, then shook his head and jogged away. He followed the walls, putting as many as he could between himself and the strange thing, and finally dropped to a crouch next to a dumpster, just as the claxon stopped.

Moments later, from as far away as Circus Circus, thousands of eyes watched as a mushroom cloud rose over downtown Las Vegas.


	34. Or else

In the casinos in the north, the detonation of Branson's superweapon was heard as a thunderous roar. In the south, it was not so much heard as felt. The ground shook, and the very air convulsed in slamming waves. For miles in every direction, windows shattered, doors were blown open, wood and plaster split, and even concrete cracked and crumbled. Distant observers saw a good-sized tower collapse entirely. Such was the fate of man's buildings. Human flesh, of course, fared much worse. Thousands of zombies were immolated, and thousands more were asphyxiated or suffocated. Still more dropped dead from catastrophic concussions, and more thousands than all the dead combined went staggering or only crawling away, with burns, burst ear drums, maimed limbs and damaged lungs.

Even as the last echoes of the explosion died down, a new sound rose up, the steady roar of engines. Two APCs rolled down Flamingo Road, followed by a dozen armed cars and scores of motorcycles. A military helicopter flew low overhead, bearing Duke. "It's incredible," came the awed report of Branson's trusted ex-military lieutenant. "I can't even guesstimate the casualties. Ten thousand dead outright is the absolute minimum. There's a lot more injured, and it's going to be important to know which ones are going to be a threat. If they cough up blood, that's lung damage, and it will take them down soon enough; if they aren't in the way, let it. Ditto for major burns. If the blood's coming out of the ears, it means a drum rupture; save your bullets, but don't let your guard down. But if they look more confused than hurt, especially if they're running in circles, you're probably looking at a concussion or just sensory overload. Shoot them on sight, because they will give you trouble later."

"Agreed," Branson said. "Austin, what's your status?"

It was a moment before a voice answered: "This is Jacksonville Florida. I lost an arm to a mine. Texas is occupied, everybody is. We're killing them as fast as they come, everywhere. Even the wounded are doing what they can, and I got the radio. There's definitely damage to the mall and especially the garage. Some of it's from mines going off on the roof. What's going on out there? Where's the help that was supposed to be at Terrible's?"

"I will admit, I did not give a completely accurate account of my intentions," Branson said. "But my actual plan should provide even greater benefit. Rather than have my men wait at Terrible's, which after all would have neutralized their mobility if and when a horde arrived to encircle them, I waited to send them until your breakout team was already leading a part of the horde there. Now they can use their mobility to place the pursuing zombies in a double encirclement, the effectiveness of which has already been demonstrated, and also draw away more of the horde. Branson, out."

Over a closed channel, Duke said, "Sir, it's a good plan, but Terrible's can take care of itself, and we clearly have a greater opportunity. Look at the footage: There's hardly a zombie behind the mall that isn't looking disoriented at least. If we went in there right now, we could plow through them. Even half of us would be enough to cover another breakout..."

"Duly noted, and it will be taken under consideration," Branson said. "That will be all."

"But Branson, we can do more than that! We could retake the rear of the mall! We could meet up with Austin's rear and storm the main corridor! Why, if you called the Panhandler in to cover the other end, and the horde there has contracted enough that we could do it, we could go through the whole lot of them like rats in a trash compactor!"

"Duly noted! That will be all." Branson shut off the radio, leaned back, and ever so slightly smiled.

Suddenly, one of his attendants burst in, and he turned the radio back on. A voice came on immediately, Krista's. "Branson," she said, with the softness that came with utmost fear, "we have a problem. We have a big problem.."

The front of Circus Circus was heavily fortified and manned by their best fighters, but at the rear, the threat was deemed less serious, enough for non-combatants to be allowed to move about openly. Thus, there were more women and children than warriors staring out from the perimeter. Some cried out, and a fair number turned to run, but most only stood in silence, as if too frightened to react or simply unable to believe that they beheld an M60 tank driving straight for the casino.

The tank halted at 50 yards. A helmeted head emerged from a hatch in the hull. "Enid Oklahoma has a message," Enid's accomplice Helmet shouted into a megaphone. Another voice promptly boomed from speakers in the side of the turret.

"We have no quarrel with you," the warlord said smugly. "Just one demand. Deliver Branson Missouri. Or else."

In Stratosphere, bikers rushed about, fumbling for weapons and shouting conflicting orders. Some semblance of calm descended as Tal strode into their midst. "Now what?" Nogales shouted hopefully.

"We're carrying out my orders, from Branson himself," Tal said. "We do nothing." There was a moment of shocked silence, followed by a rising chorus of disgusted cries. Tal only turned away, but he looked over his shoulder at the sound of running feet and a slamming door.

Krista burst from the crowd with a megaphone, but it was her sister who took the microphone and shouted, "Or else _what?_"

Helmet popped back out of the hatch and answered himself, "We've got a tank! _Use your imagination_."

Right at that moment, a shot rang out from the roof of Stratosphere.


	35. Tanks For Nothing

"Listen up," Krista shouted. "I'd just as soon throw Branson to the zombies myself as give him the time of day, but I would still take him over you!"

"Surrender Branson," answered the voice of Enid. "Or else." The booming of the speakers all but drowned out a high-pitched "piiinngg" as something ricocheted off the improvised skirt that covered the running gear.

On the top of Stratosphere, a high-powered scope shifted upward to the top of the Tank. There was a sound like a thunderclap, and recoil like a kick in the ribs. More than a mile away, there was a "zaanng" as s hypervelocity bullet shattered on the turret front."

"This is it!" Duke urged Branson. "This is the big push!"

"No, it's not," Branson said.

Then, at virtually the same moment, the warlord and Tal said exactly the same thing: "Where's his APC?"

"Dammit," Q muttered as he aimed his rifle, "maybe further back..." He gave no heed to a shout from one of the men searching the roof.

The Tank lumbered forward, extending a dozer blade, while Enid's voice gave a cold-blooded recitation of what he would and could do. A hatch lifted briefly, just enough for Cash to investigate the cause of a strange noise. Then, just as four bikers grabbed hold of the slender gunsmith who was Q, one last shot cleanly severed the tank's radio mast. Enid's voice died in static.

"He was making his demands by radio," Branson said. "The bastard wasn't even..."

That was when Enid's voice came blaring in his own ears. "Branson Missouri, there's only so many places you can hide, and I will destroy every one of them if you aren't in front of me in _five minutes!_" A video screen showed the APC and at least a hundred well-armed bikers rolling toward Treasure Island's refilled Buccaneer Bay.

Bruce's voice came over the radio: "Branson, we need to talk..."

"Do we," Branson muttered as he started the ARV.

Enid's APC had been upgraded with a decommissioned Bradley turret, armed with an automatic cannon and two anti-tank missiles. Enid himself stood tall, smiling as he delivered his ultimatum: "You can shoot me, but it won't change a thing! We're all here because we're tired of Branson making all the rules! You think we won't do anything we have to to get to him? We can storm your casinos by force, or shell them to rubble! We can destroy your barricades, and let the zombies do the work for us!"

"You don't say," Branson said as he put the ARV in gear.

"But why should we have to? You don't want Branson any more than we do! So give us the SOB, and we'll go away!" Even as he spoke, the ARV came crashing straight through the rear defenses of Treasure Island, headed straight south. Enid laughed and said, "Attack."

Defenders scattered and zombies swarmed as the M60 tank plowed across Circus Circus's rear perimeter. Hundreds of zombies swarmed after the tank, but hundreds more headed for the casino. Over the chaos, Krista shouted, "Fall back! Protect yourselves, but fall back! _Let them come to you!_"

Scores of zombies clung to the Tank, or else were caught on running gear, fixtures and layers of added armor and barbed wire. Enough zombies had piled on the dozer blade to make the Tank's front suspension sag. The cupola .50 cal blasted indiscriminately, and the main armament swiveled to fire a massive shot canister straight backwards. A humvee half-shrouded by a tarp paced the tank, and at just the right moment, the vehicle braked and the tarp fell back to reveal a recoilless gun. A high-explosive shell slammed into the side of the Tank, but the brunt of its force was absorbed by the very zombies who assailed the tank. The gunner loaded an anti-tank shell for the second shot, but the Tank veered away, placing the remaining defenses in the way of the hull, and the turret swiveled to present a narrower profile. Only the hindrance of clinging zombies prevented the Tank from getting off the first shot, and the tank destroyer's shell only blasted zombies off the hull top.

Rather than return fire, the Tank made a tight turn, smashing straight through the corner of the defensive perimeter. Then a sound like thunder came from overhead, and a grazing blast tore away barbed wire and armor plate as well as zombies from the side of the turret. All eyes looked up, to see disks on drifting parachutes overhead. One of Branson's self-propelled guns had fired a special-purpose shell, felled with a dozen manhole-cover submunitions. There was a dull boom as another broke apart overhead.

Smoke grenades launched from dispensers on the side of the Tank's turret, and flailing fire from the cupola shredded submunition parachutes and set off one manhole cover with a direct hit. But the manhole covers were already locking in on the signature of the Tank. Blast after blast came down like thunderbolts of the gods, first raking the sides of the tank and then plunging straight down as manhole covers moved in directly overhead.

The Tank was rocked by a direct hit to the turret front. "That was a miss!" Milo shouted. "They're programmed to aim for the engine deck." A slightly-concussed Cash gaped at a bulge on the rubber lining of the inside of the turret, inches from his head.

"Whatta we do? Whatta we do?" Helmet shouted to Milo.

"We find cover," Milo said. A second tank destroyer rolled in front of the Tank. A shell sailed dead-center for the glacis, but struck the dozer blade and the charnel pile of zombies first. There was a titanic blast of sprayed gore, and then the Tank drove the would-be tank destroyer straight through the defensive barricades with what was left of the blade.

It was a matter of less than minute before the bloody, battered, shrapnel-riddled Tank burst out through the frontal defenses of Circus Circus, still pursued by a handful of manhole covers. Smoke poured from the engine vents in the rear, and sparks shot from the sagging running gear, confusing the infrared sensors of the manhole covers. But then, the manhole covers were not programmed to wait for sure things. Another manhole cover fired, gutting a car that was in the way of the running gear. The Tank pressed on, driving across the Boulevard. A wild shot canister from the main gun obliterated two manhole covers, and a footbridge threw another off the trail long enough for the Tank to jump a curb and disappear out of sight.

Enid's bikers easily drove back the Treasure Island defenders, but were stymied by the bay. The APC pressed home, driving effortlessly through the water. Only then did three boats come forth, laying down fire on the shore. Enid smiled as he took leisurely aim with the cannon, and then blinked when he saw that one boat seemed to be holding back, but maneuvering to line up its bow with the APC. He jerked the turret controls to take aim, just as an HIWS shell blasted through the frontal armor and straight into the engine compartment.


	36. Return Trip

Bullets zinged across Buccaneer Bay. An artillery shell sailed overhead. A boat with half a dozen of the casino's defenders ironically used Enid Oklahoma's knocked-out APC as cover, laying down their own fire on bikers who waded away in defeat. "It's confirmed, the APC is knocked out!" shouted the leader of the squad. "There's smoke coming out of all the hatches; anybody in there is dead or gonna be. The turret's intact, though. If the fire were out, it could probably still be used as a strong point, ours or theirs."

"Leave the APC alone, but check the bodies," Bruce radioed back. "Look for any sign of Enid Oklahoma, dead or alive!" The captain nodded, and a companion handed him a prop boat hook. He leaned forward, reaching for two bullet-riddled bodies floating next to the rear hatch. He tried to hook one body, which floated away instead. That was when a volley of pistol fire erupted from just above the surface. The captain pitched forward over the bow, and a companion toppled back. Then a grenade sailed into the boat. The explosion sent a geyser of red foam above the APC. On the other side of the vehicle, Enid Oklahoma reared up with a rallying cry of sheer rage.

The explosion could be heard from Circus Circus, but Bruce's voice on the radio was eerily calm. "We took a hit to the casino, but it could have been worse. It looks like the bikers are falling back. My best guess is, they mean to dig in at our own barricade. Circus Circus, what's your status?"

"The zombies are overrunning the front parking lot!" Krista said. "Not that there was much left to overrun. It's a tossup whether we took more damage from Enid's tank or Branson's manhole covers! We need help, right now!"

"I can't move anyone out without drawing manhole covers," Tal said. "We have confirmation that Enid just launched his own, and they don't distinguish friendlies from foes anyway. That's why Branson ordered us to stay put!"

"Yeah, Branson, real standup guy," Krista said. "Give up, Tal. He's gone!"

"We can't make any assumptions," Bruce said. "If he had planned to break and run, he would have brought his people with him. Right, Tal?"

"He doesn't tell anyone what his plans are," Tal said. He looked out with a telescope from the top of Stratosphere. He frowned and focused in on the giant mound of rubble that stretched across the Boulevard just beyond Treasure Island. Already, the renegade bikers were scrambling up the embankment, using the larger blocks for cover...

...Until Branson's engineering vehicle came plowing through the barricade, with ten thousand zombies behind it.

Enid's voice was barely intelligible over the snarls of zombies, the roar of weapons fire and his own apoplectic wrath. "I want you to lay down everything you got, on Treasure Island and the Circus!" he roared. "Demolition, incendiary, phosphorous! And lay down more mines on the Boulevard!"

"But sir," protested the commander of his distant self-propelled gun, "we already fired off a full volley! We need to move, or Branson could bracket us with his guns! We're attracting zombies as it is!"

"There's no _time_ to move," Enid snarled. "Dontcha get it? We finish this now, or we're done. Now open fire."

The commander shook his head and turned to give the order. After a moment's hesitation, he said, "Load a flech round. We're at least going to clear out these zombies." The gun's large turret swiveled ponderously toward an incoming swarm, and fired a six-inch flechette canister that ravaged the zombies. The cupola machine gun cut down survivors, and the gun crew covered the other direction as best they could with small-arms fire out the open loading doors at the rear of the turret. "Now load a demolition shell and plug in coordinates for the Circus..."

Suddenly, one of the crewmen gave a cry. The commander looked over his shoulder in time to see the man fall out of the rear door with an arrow in his chest. "Hostile fire!" he shouted. "Hostile fire! We've got lepers!"

He looked over his shoulder again, and took a count. The vehicle carried a crew of six... one was dead... and there were five people inside with him. He grabbed for a sidearm. "Lepers?" said a uniformed figure who slouched against the ammunition rack. "You think you've got lepers? You've got Jack Ketch, and if you don't do what I say, you're gonna find out just how much trouble you've got."

A score of bedraggled bikers followed Enid as he beat his retreat. A parting shower of rubble rained down, courtesy of the ARV-turned-siege engine. "Where's those shells?" he shouted. "I need my gun!"

"Your gun?" came an answering voice Enid had never heard in his life. "I think you mean our gun..."

It was Nogales who ran to Tal. "Tal, we've got a spig incoming!"

"I can take it!" Q shouted. "Just give me my gun back."

Tal shook his head. "It's not Enid's... not anymore."

The approaching vehicle flew a handmade banner from the radio mast, bearing the symbol of a heart with what looked like a golden lightning bolt running through it. A dozen motley figures hung from the hull, and more could be seen moving in furtively behind it. Then Jack Ketch stood up tall in the topside hatch, and pointed to a red armband.

Tal made a call on all frequencies: "Listen up! We've got new friendlies. They look like zombies, but they aren't. They're wearing red armbands, so check your fire." He turned to his own men as he suited up. "I'm using my discretion to lead a relief force to Circus Circus. I'm asking for twenty volunteers. Any more will set off the manhole covers." He had to tun down fifty.

Tal's SUV led the charge to the parking lot. He leaned out the window, firing a shotgun one-handed. He cut down 5 zombies with three shots, and blew a manhole cover out of the sky like a clay pigeon. The Caddy plowed through a pack as it skidded to a halt, 10 yards from the main casino entrance. Zombies were pouring in, and even Tal shuddered at the sounds of shouts and terrible screams from within. But then he listened, and realized what he was hearing: shouts of triumph, and screams of dying zombies.


End file.
